


Bloodsport

by Asuka Kureru (Askerian)



Category: Bleach
Genre: (do arrancars get weird dicks while in resurreccion), (get fucked aizen), (my vote is yes), (opie too), Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Psychics/Psionics, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Enemies to Lovers, Feral Behavior, Hate Sex, M/M, Minor Character Death, Quincy Kurosaki Ichigo, Unethical Experimentation, Xenophilia, mentions of cannibalism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2020-01-31 08:58:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18587980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askerian/pseuds/Asuka%20Kureru
Summary: "Heeeey. I'd recognize that hairanywhere. Ain't you the fucker who keeps cockblocking my shots?"The last place Ichigo wanted to hear about his hair was in an alien forest on an alien planet in the middle of a quote-unquote "polite" standoff with an Arrancar hunter squad, and the last fucking person he wanted to hear it from was some asshole with hair as vividly blue as his own was orange.He said nothing, though. Fourteen months under Captain Quilge Opie of the First Jagdarmee Regiment had broken him of opening his mouth unless addressed by a superior, and the Arrancar wasn't that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Askerian, A Fool: i could have three porns and one sprinkle of plot on the edges!
> 
> chapter 2 is already twice the length of chapter 1 and they haven't fucked yet. I am in TEARS people. why do all my fics do the accordion thing. I said I wasn't posting until I'd written the whole thing but yeah, I am not strong enough. T^T

"Heeeey. I'd recognize that hair _anywhere_. Ain't you the fucker who keeps cockblocking my shots?"

The last place Ichigo wanted to hear about his hair was in an alien forest on an alien planet in the middle of a quote-unquote "polite" standoff with an Arrancar hunter squad, and the last fucking person he wanted to hear it from was some asshole with hair as vividly blue as his own was orange.

He said nothing, though. Fourteen months under Captain Quilge Opie of the First Jagdarmee Regiment had broken him of opening his mouth unless addressed by a superior, and the Arrancar wasn't that.

Ichigo wasn't even part of the group that was speaking with them. Low man on the totem pole; he stood back, half turned away, watching the woods behind them for a pincer attack. The blue-haired man meanwhile stood right next to their green-haired leader and some creepily long-limbed, leering guy, face to face with Opie's second in command Accutrone and ignoring him entirely in favor of chatting up some random soldat. 

"Talking to you, Naranjo."

Ichigo rolled his eyes discreetly, kept watching the woods to the right, Ishida a few feet away at his back watching in the other direction.

"Please tell your man to refrain from bothering our recruits," Opie said frostily to the green-haired woman in charge, who watched with her hands on her hips and not an ounce of stiff-backed decorum.

"Mmh-hm. Grimmjow, flirt with the Quincies on your own time, will you?"

Ichigo didn't need to reach out very hard with his empathy to feel the spasm of disgust in borderline every single member of their squad, or the second reaction when the black-haired guy on her other side leered, letting a tongue roll out that looked about ten inches too long to have fit in his mouth. 

"Oh, Nelliel, _Nelliel_ , I don't waste _flirting_ on Quincies, I just fuck 'em messy, slit their throats and leave 'em in the gutter where they belong. I was just wondering if I needed to take care of Orange over there on the way out, he's basically the only one that's actually an obstacle. Oi, cheeto puff."

... Fourteen months under Captain Opie had _almost_ broken Ichigo of opening his mouth.

"Go ahead and take care of me if it makes you feel better," he threw casually over his shoulder, making a show of not looking at the guy at all. "You nailed Le Varr in the back and somehow missed every single important organ he had, I'm not worried."

Now every single member of the squad felt annoyed at Ichigo though, and it wasn't because he'd backtalked. 

He was gemischt: half-blooded, begotten on a pure echt noblewoman who could trace her lineage on both sides through fifteen generations. With abnormally deep reserves of power -- hybrid vigor, they called it with doubtful moues -- but no fine control worth the name, and shitty training to boot. The people in this squad weren't merely echt, they were elite soldiers. 

Guarantee the Arrancar had said that to cause trouble in their group, though. Either via making them annoyed at Ichigo for being considered superior or via changing their formation to either use or protect him better, which in the middle of an operation was _not the time for it_. Sigh. But he was used to his squad being annoyed at him, and he had no illusions about how likely Opie was to change jack shit to accommodate him. Opie didn't even like to admit he breathed their air.

"Mouthy little fucker, huh," the blue-haired Arrancar drawled, but then his leader said something quiet and firm and he dropped it.

He dropped it until later that evening, when everyone was done setting up camp. 

\--

"What do they feel like?" 

Ichigo sneaked his cousin a glance. "The Arrancar? Kind of buzzy. Adrenaline, probably. It's pretty hard to read them right."

Ishida's brow scrunched up. Coming to a rest almost elbow to elbow, he scanned the woods with Ichigo but there was nothing much to see. Some weird seaweed-looking trees, nothing worrisome. Ichigo's empathy only worked on humans and human-adjacent, so for all they knew a pack of tooth worms lurked behind the big leaves.

He could tell that Bazz and Candice really wanted to get into a fight again, and that Candice especially might well kill a couple Arrancar just from the frustration of being ordered not to. He could tell Opie was profoundly offended that the green-haired woman even existed, never mind how she seemed coolly unimpressed by his posturing. Apart from that... 

(Weird as hell that they were making camp together, but Ichigo sort of understood the logic. They were both after the same target, a war criminal with unknown but likely massive means neither side could afford to leave free; cooperation was the best way to make sure he was caught. Therefore their nations had set a _truce_ that had to be _respected_ \-- officially. Unofficially, neither side wanted the other side to disappear behind the treeline and take potshots all night.)

"So you don't know if they're going to attack us in the night."

Ichigo sighed. "No idea. I know they're ready if we do though."

"Damn straight we are," purred someone he had _not felt coming at all_.

Whirling, Ichigo and his cousin both raised their hands on instinct, focus crosses glinting at their wrists. 

The blue-haired, foul-mouthed bastard from earlier stood a few steps away. His hands were in the pockets of his fatigues like he didn't have a single worry about hobbling himself, like he didn't even think he might need to dodge. 

A long, trim body, loose spine, loose shoulders, arms thick with muscles -- but still built for whipping speed. Something shudderingly odd in the articulation of his jaw, in the markings on his face, in his teeth.

To Ichigo's other sense he wasn't _there_ until Ichigo met his heavy-lidded, amused eyes. Then it was like he fuzzed into view -- a cat letting the mice go just to watch them run. 

Ichigo scowled. Teeth or not, fuck him. "What do you want?"

"You're a rude little shit, huh," the guy observed, a long, toothy smirk blooming on his face.

Ishida's upper lip twisted faintly; he drew himself up, hands falling at his sides to brush imaginary dirt off his uniform. "He is not," he lied -- really shamelessly, too, considering Ichigo's track record. "Apologies if you failed to understand. I will rephrase; what do you want, you abomination of nature."

The guy's smirk faded away. The way he looked at Ishida -- Ichigo didn't like that. It was like he looked _through_ him. Or like he was thinking about putting something through him. Ichigo stepped forward and between them without a thought; Ishida clicked his tongue, annoyed.

"Kurosaki--"

"So your name's Kurosaki."

Ichigo blinked, a little thrown. "... Why the hell did you want to know?"

"Like I said, you're the only fucker that's even been a little bit of a hindrance. How the hell do you know I'm coming every time like that?" the Arrancar asked, head tilted to the side, tone almost friendly. 

... Well, it wasn't with his empathy. Ugh. Ichigo scowled. He'd blocked the guy's attacks somehow until he didn't, and while Le Varr was gonna be glad to be out on disability once he healed of the bolt straight through his chest, Thoumeaux was dead.

Thoumeaux had been a little bastard. Worse, his telepathy had been strong enough to control people's perceptions entirely and he'd liked to practice on Ichigo. Ichigo still felt awful.

"Maybe you're not as good at stealth as you think."

"Maybe you don't wanna be riling me up right behind the trees, Quincy," the Arrancar breathed out, suddenly in his face, and then Ichigo realized he'd herded them -- only a few shuffling steps, thoughtlessly keeping the distance, and now there was a trunk blocking the view, there were shadows deep with evening light, swallowing them. The others would see them if they looked straight on but they may not think to look at all. 

He flipped his cross up into his palm and lifted that palm up until his fingertips almost brushed the man's throat, the cross only an inch away from the tender underside of his jaw.

"I don't?" he asked, just as quietly. 

He tried to feel farther around for similar buzzing eagerness -- maybe the man wasn't alone, maybe there were others surrounding them right now, and Ishida --

A wild, oddly happy grin flashed on the Arrancar's face, and he leaned into Ichigo's hand, grabbing at his wrist; Ichigo's fingertips touched his skin then, found it animal-hot.

Then Ichigo's awareness of his feelings bloomed into full surround sound. Bloodlust and pleasure and offense, pleasure at being offended -- his pulse kicking with anticipation against Ichigo's fingers -- a thirst for violence so burning-eager, so enthusiastic, so _physical_ \-- oh god.

'Fuck them and slit their throats,' huh. Yeah, Ichigo could... He. God.

"Take your filthy hands off him," Ishida snapped, sidestepping around Ichigo with his hand raised. And no, they couldn't afford to be the ones who broke the tentative truce. Ichigo grabbed Ishida's forearm with his free hand. The guy didn't even glance that way.

"I think I know you from somewhere else too," he purred, eyes roaming Ichigo's face. "You been to Las Noches recently?"

... _Motherfuck_. 

"Say, six months ago."

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

"Ishida, get back to camp," he ordered quietly. "Now."

Ishida puffed up like an offended hen. " _Kurosaki you do **not** boss me around--_"

Ichigo broke eye contact with those crazy blue eyes, even though it felt like a deathly mistake. Stared at his cousin, then gave the camp a quick flickering look. Cang Du was looking their way. If he came -- if he overheard. They'd both be fucked.

Ichigo could take the fall. It was fine. Just say stuff about his birthday, a dare, wanting to try the brothels. The freaky beast girls. Filthy behavior, but nothing better was expected of a gemischt. Impure blood must out.

"When I've got blackmail on you I boss you around. Go."

"... I'll be watching," Ishida said after a too-long moment weighing the odds and coming up with the same numbers as Ichigo had. He side-stepped around the Arrancar, glaring hotly. "If you injure him they will not find enough of your body to fill a _thimble_."

"Uh huh. Piss off, Glasses."

The guy didn't try to talk farther, to tell Ishida anything. He probably wanted to keep it in reserve -- if he bought the idea that Ichigo had blackmail on Ishida and he wanted to cause problems there was a good chance he'd go straight to the blackmail victim to offer his intel. Ichigo tried not to seem too relieved.

His fucking hair, though. Black-haired guys were a dime a dozen even in the heart of the Arrancar capital. Nobody would remember Ishida had been there. 

The Arrancar was still in his face, holding his wrist; Ichigo didn't want to remove the threat of his cross but his arm was starting to ache from keeping the position, and it was gonna bruise.

The asshole smiled then, grimly amused. "It wasn't a sanctioned mission, huh. What happened to the bitch in the end? You sell her on the side? Our labs would probably have paid you a nice little ransom."

Ichigo's foot lashed out, hooked the guy's ankle and pulled. He twisted at the waist to slam him against the tree, his other hand fisted in his collar, and growled. "I'm _really sorry_ I kidnapped your kidnap victim. Did you get in _trouble_." 

He looked so _pleased_. Eyes bright with interest, teeth bared and oh god, yeah, they were weird, too pointy, too thick. Not human. "Nah, I was just on retrieval. Those morons in Security, though, they got it. You let her go, didja? She put out first?"

Ichigo didn't think -- he lashed out, a quick left uppercut.

His fist glanced off the guy's jaw and the world whirled -- the wide, twisted tree didn't have bark to dig into his spine but thin branches bowed like plastic until he was pinned to the trunk. In the clearing someone had lit a fire; it traced the very edge of the man's jaw in gold, but the rest was in shadows.

They were pressed together from ribs to pelvis.

It wasn't a surprise to him that the Arrancar was hard. It was dizzying anyway. Pleased rage and hateful want whipping up a frenzy under his skin -- he gasped quietly, affected despite himself. The guy _loved_ that Ichigo had made it so hard to do his job, and he wanted to _ruin_ Ichigo for it. For daring. For succeeding. For being so frustratingly competent and god, god, Ichigo needed to shield himself now, he needed to stop feeling all that. 

"... You actually like it," the Arrancar said, slow with mocking wonder. Ichigo's head jerked up.

"Wha -- _what_?! No! I --"

He ground his hips against Ichigo's, slow and insistent, grinning wider and wilder by the second. "You thought I was kidding about slitting your throat once I was done fucking you sloppy?"

Ichigo's lip curled up; he twisted the hand with the cross, trying to get free -- got it slammed against the trunk too. Shit, his arm strength was ridiculous. 

Telekinesis would have the whole squad there watching him get humped by an Arrancar in the next second. Flushing red, he hesitated --

"You wanna take your chances, huh." The man leaned in, exhaling slow and deliberate against Ichigo's jaw, the slice of his neck showing over his high collar. "Maybe I was kidding," he purred, mocking. "Maybe you'll be a good enough fuck I'll forget."

\-- Yeah, no. Ichigo shoved a hand between them, grabbed the guy's crotch through thick cloth, and started twisting.

"--Hnghff--" A burst of startlement, shock -- almost good but _not good_ , instinctive desire to jump back, shield himself (but he couldn't without yanking his balls out of Ichigo's grip and that would absolutely wrench something,) equally strong desire to _bite Ichigo's throat out_. Elbows planted on both sides of Ichigo's head, the Arrancar stared at him with wide, wild eyes at point blank range. Ichigo narrowed his eyes meanly.

"If you want to rub your dick on me, you _ask first._ "

"... You little bitch," the man breathed out in sheer disbelief, and ground his teeth together when Ichigo gave another little twist, bowed his head until his forehead almost touched Ichigo's. Ichigo could feel his hot breath washing over his face. "Like you're not gagging for my beast dick. You Quincies are all the same," he growled, or purred maybe, something low and rolling right into Ichigo's ear. "Fuckin' cream yourselves thinking of an abomination ruining your prissy little uniforms. Your prissy little _cunts_."

He gave a heavy thrust there, right into Ichigo's grasp; he must have hurt himself, but he still let out a low grunt of pleasure-relief, something that shifted into a breathy sigh against Ichigo's skin. 

"Haven't met a single one of you that didn't dream of being defiled," he sighed out, lips brushing Ichigo's neck.

"You've met one," Ichigo replied, feeling weird. There was so much _hate_ in him.

Closing his eyes, he loosened his hold into something merely firm, not cruel; then found the man's shaft, gave it a slow pump, and a second. Startled confusion -- pleasure, unexpected. The Arrancar's breath hitched.

Ichigo thought -- it might be hot to play at it. Play at being pinned down, ravished. The guy honestly thought Ichigo despised him just for being born with the genes he had, though. That... That soured it.

He thought about just... Just jerking him off, just because -- then going his own way. Go back to patrol (oh hell he was supposed to keep watch,) just do that for him and then be done; the guy didn't want an exchange, a mutual hookup.

He'd called Inoue a bitch. Ichigo's hand tightened a little.

The Arrancar dived under his chin, bit Ichigo's throat through the stiff collar of his jacket, growling -- Ichigo shuddered, feeling the points of those teeth even through armored cloth. He pressed closer to Ichigo, rolling his hips into his hand.

"Like _fuck_ you are," he snarled. "Saintly little priss. Gonna sit you on my dick, make you _sing_ \--"

"Shut _up,_ " Ichigo snarled right back, and pumped faster. He felt thick in his hand. Fever-hot. "Told you to _ask first_."

Strong hands ran down his sides, squeezing at his flanks, his waist. His hips. Shoved up between jacket and shirt, trying to free skin. Ichigo gasped. That felt -- better than it had any right to.

"The day I beg a Quincy for jack shit is the day I die."

"Did I say _beg_ ," Ichigo snapped, irritated, and then had to swallow a yelp of surprise as the Arrancar swayed back, grabbed his hips, shoved him _up_ the tree, and crashed right back into him. He pinned Ichigo up with his feet off the ground and his knees somehow parted to allow even more closeness. 

Ichigo's hand had shifted; he'd lost his grip and at this angle it hurt to try to find it again. He wriggled, trying to gain some space to move; the Arrancar's hands palmed at his ass, rough possessive kneading, pressed against the taut cloth between his ass cheeks. 

"Fucking--" Ichigo hissed, giving up on the guy's dick for now; cupped his head with both hands and fisted his fingers into wild blue locks. He yanked the guy's head backwards -- Ichigo's collar was damp, one of the buttons gone from the gnawing, fuck, Opie was going to -- never mind that.

He looked so feral. Eyes glimmering too much for so little firelight, teeth bared in an ugly rictus -- offense and rage all through his heart. How _dare_ Ichigo --

Ichigo kissed him -- tilted his head into it with both hands and dove into his mouth, ankles locking over the swell of his ass.

The guy gasped into his mouth, body briefly tensing, heart flickering confusion, then groaned, kissed back -- for a moment it wasn't about contempt and revenge; it was just hot startled want. Ichigo shivered. A tongue met his; he sucked it into his mouth, groaning, eager. (It felt just this little bit rougher, less smooth than he had expected.) His hips rocked hard against the man's hard length. 

Thirty seconds ago he'd been glad to be pinned with his pants still on, still closed. They were military issue and the belt was new. His crotch and ass were absolutely safe from direct contact. He kind of hated himself for that right now.

With a growl, the guy broke away, went right back to his neck, rocking insistently into him. Ichigo's back was gonna be bruised to hell and back. He wrapped his arms around his shoulders and rocked back.

A few seconds -- minutes -- of nothing but quiet panting in each other's ear, cloth rubbing together. The Arrancar's desire, evident both in his body and in what Ichigo could feel of him, not burning with hate -- just, kind of, sprinkled there. Flashes of resentment and then bursts of hot, liquid satisfaction, the coiling-spring feeling of rising pleasure. Ichigo didn't even know whose it had been originally. 

He wasn't expecting to come first -- but a thrust got him just right, and the cloth of his pants went tight between his legs, against his taint, and hot panting against his throat -- he convulsed in the man's hold, fingertips digging bruises in his wide back, breath choked in his throat so that he wouldn't shout. Ichigo went limp in his hold, breathing hard; the man stumbled a little, fell forward into him, growled.

"Lemme down."

"Fuck you, you're not running now--"

"Lemme down," Ichigo repeated, with a swat at his shoulder, and tugged on blue hair. "Let me down, and _ask me_."

The guy loosened his hold by pure surprise; Ichigo slipped down the tree trunk, feet thudding down, caught his hips and pushed them back immediately, before he could get pinned again.

Then he went down to his haunches, balanced on the balls of his feet, hands firm on narrow hips. And then he glared up, knowing he was flushed, his mouth swollen with biting kisses and arousal, glared up with absolute certainty. "You don't have to _beg_. But if you think I won't _bite_ \--" 

Wide, disbelieving eyes -- and then they scrunched closed and he curled above Ichigo, forearm and forehead pressed to the trunk over him. "Fuckin' -- _blow me_."

It was lacking a 'please.' But it had been strangled with need, not imperious, not cold. Good enough. Ichigo's hand rose to curl around the shaft the guy had just fished out through his fly, batting the Arrancar's own hand away; then he leaned in and pressed his mouth to the head, let it push wetly past his lips. He tightened his grip after that, rocked backwards with the man's instinctive thrust. A square hand cupped the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, tried to push him forward, and he growled a warning.

Then he sucked again, a long gliding pull; dived down again, fingers tightening against the base of his shaft.

God he was big. Ichigo had a disorienting moment of wondering what he was doing there, sucking enemy dick, how it had happened. Of feeling -- odd, easy, dazed.

Then the man made a quiet little strangled noise, a gasping moan. Still feeling so completely baffled at Ichigo, but no longer caring. Ichigo's shoulders loosened; he went a little deeper this time, took in a little more -- allowed the hand on his head to guide him more, so long as it didn't shove too hard. He could still feel the sense-memory of those hands on his side, on his ass, kneading and grabbing possessively.

"Ah -- _fuck_ \--"

Ichigo gagged as the last thrust went too deep, too hard, reared back with a hiss and the whole length of his dick slipped out, hot and slick on his lips --

\-- eyes staring down, still leaning hard on that elbow, watching him with such intense -- 

\-- warm wetness across his cheek, his chin. 

A first splash. The Arrancar's eyes fluttered almost all the way closed; he caught hold of his dick, gave it a long pull. Again on Ichigo's cheek, at the corner of his lips. 

The last time was deliberate, resting the head of his cock against Ichigo's lower lip, coming that last hot and bitter drop right across, into his mouth.

They stared at each other for a long, breathless moment, coming down. Ichigo didn't know what he looked like; it occurred to him to wonder, not straight away but eventually, and then he flushed hot, eyes flitting away. His hand rose to his own face, hesitated.

"You -- came on my face." Oh. That was... That was kind of.

Defiled. Sloppy. Was this what...? Was he -- 

Ichigo looked for mean smugness. He could only feel buzzing satisfaction slowly overtaken by an odd ambivalence, and then the Arrancar stepped back all at once. He broke all physical contact and then Ichigo could feel nothing at all, just like earlier when he'd snuck up on them, so sudden he reeled a little. Eyes wide, he opened his mouth to -- the Arrancar was turning on his heels, tucking himself back in briskly. Then he took two long steps and was gone, melting between the trees.

Ichigo kept crouching there for another long moment before he climbed back up to his feet and mechanically started cleaning himself up with tissues. He neatened his uniform, got his collar mostly back into place, batted moss off his back. Vaguely, far away, he hoped he hadn't missed anything incriminating. Then he got back to patrolling.

\--

In the morning the whole Arrancar squad was gone, disappeared sometime during Barro's patrol, and Barro wasn't the kind to doze off on the job. Opie drove them twice as hard all day to catch up, because there was no way they weren't all after the same target here.

Of course Doctor Sousuke Aizen was a war criminal of epic proportions for the Arrancar nation.

That was exactly why the Wandenreich was going to take him, or make sure nobody else could.

\--

"I still can't believe you made me watch you get busy with -- with _that_."

Ichigo groaned. Ishida's voice was low and they were at the back of the squad, but it was blindingly obvious something was going on between them. It had been obvious from the frosty silent treatment that had left Ichigo baffled for a whole day, and now that Ishida had shared the problem it was even worse from all the blushing Ichigo had been doing. 

Had he seriously assumed Ishida wasn't going to come back and check on things when Ichigo didn't reappear straight away? He had been a _moron_.

"I didn't make you _watch_ , oh my god."

"You sure made me have to play lookout for your -- your _tryst_ , what the _hell_ , Kurosaki, that wasn't even a baseline human like your _dad_."

Ichigo discreetly elbowed him in the ribs. The kevlar was thick but he had pointy bones; Ishida grunted, glared pointedly back -- then Bazz looked back, scanning the squad, and they both put their serious faces back on. 

Ichigo got a lot of leeway for his behavior with Ishida because of their distant family connection -- and yeah, Bazz didn't care if they ragged on each other, but Opie and Accutrone and Candice sure did. Uryuu Ishida was an emperor candidate; Ichigo Kurosaki was... nothing. His personal meat shield. If Ishida got chosen Ichigo might look forward to a spot on his bodyguard team -- the secret one, not the one in pretty uniforms that got to parade along with the limo.

Which, good, because those uniforms made them all look like douches. Ichigo liked being able to breathe without exploding his clothes, too.

"You didn't even see anything," he mumbled back a few minutes later, eyes roving watchfully over the landscape. Which was more of a hopeful denial than a certainty. 

"Kurosaki, what I saw is now seared into my brain until the day I die, I will not make it worse by recounting the details to your face. _What were you thinking?!_ "

Had he been thinking, was the better question. Ichigo ducked his head. How to even explain this -- this tornado of raging feelings to Ishida? Telepathy was the weakest of his cousin's gifts and it didn't include the emotional spectrum much at all. How would Ichigo explain what it was like to know someone like that, what drove them, what they _craved_ \--

Also that asshole had been really hot. Um.

"How can you -- I can't even -- how do you want on you a mouth that has probably _eaten people_."

Ichigo huffed out a breath. "Come on, that's propaganda--"

"We had a _briefing_ about it being necessary to deny them access to corpses. We're supposed to obliterate their bodies in the field rather than just kill and move on. Why did you think that was?"

"... Psychological warfare?"

Ishida gave him a long, disbelieving look. "It's because they _eat the corpses to heal themselves_. Because biokinesis is a gift _every single one of them_ has, and this is the _most efficient way to use it_."

... The guy's mouth had been on his neck. Teeth, too. Ichigo tried to figure out if he was retroactively freaked out about it. Maybe a little.

He'd already known there was a small chance the Arrancar would take the chance to kill him, if Ichigo failed to make himself respected. What happened to his corpse after that didn't... He wasn't sure if that was something he wanted to get worked up about. He'd be dead either way.

He knew that was not an entirely normal way to feel in the circumstances. Maybe he didn't fully grasp it, inside his heart, and that was why he was confused instead of shuddering with disgust.

While Ichigo found new things to get ambivalent about regarding blowing enemy soldiers with shitty attitudes twenty paces away from his own squad, Ishida had fallen silent; his mouth pinched white, eyebrows angling less toward anger and more toward anguish. Ichigo only noticed when he cleared his throat, weirdly hesitant.

"... You didn't -- because of _her_ , right? To cover for--"

... Oh, no. No. Now he thought Ichigo had taken the fall for Inoue's rescue for both of them. Ichigo bumped his shoulder into his cousin's, rolled his eyes pointedly. "Would it make you feel better if I said I ceded to sexy blackmail."

"Yes," Ishida lied, groaning, all of his uncertain guilt and sympathetic fear dissipating. 

Which. Ichigo was a little glad. Smothering a burst of affection, he elbowed Ishida in the ribs again, just a nudge. It was good to know that Ishida thought it was preferable that he deliberately chose to get busy with a freak of nature bastardized with monstrous alien genes than to have it forced on him. It spoke of personal distaste at Ichigo's shit tastes but a respect that it was still his choice to make, of care for his well-being and happiness more than for the honor of their race as a whole.

Anyway. Ishida was kind of cool sometimes, behind the stiff propriety. "Okay, okay, I owe you one," Ichigo muttered with fake reluctance. 

"You owe me therapy," Ishida replied waspishly.

Then Bambietta whistled a warning and they were all on the job again, and Ichigo could feel free to ignore the strange encounter once again.

(Seriously, the guy was hot, but he had issues on his issues.)

\--

(Try as he may the strange look on the man's face as he gazed down at Ichigo's come-streaked face wouldn't leave his mind. He kept turning the memory over and over again, trying to decode it.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i give, this is only the first half of the planned chapter but it was getting super long and then it swerved on me and i'm still fighting it. 
> 
> heads up for mentions of cannibalism. check out the new tags.

"I find myself having trouble believing a single soldat was such a huge hindrance to a whole elite squad," Aizen said when it was all over, tone musing and whimsical. A few steps away, Luppi grinned at the orange-haired body sprawled on torn ground. 

"Grimmy knows how to pick them, huh? Too bad he doesn't know how to finish them off."

Nnoitra cackled; Edrad and Nakeem knew better. Aizen made a humming sound of curiosity, stepping casually closer to the body.

Trees and rocks were upturned and torn out for a hundred yards, some still on fire. Delicate desert rose-shaped crystals lay broken in shards. The Quincy squad had been good -- really good. Lots of heavy-hitters, highly trained. But they'd believed they and the Arrancars were competing to take Aizen into custody; so their backs had been wide open when the Arrancars joined forces with Aizen and his private guards.

Nelliel had one-shotted Sneer-face-leader through the head; Nnoitra had speared Naranjo's little friend the Imperial Heir through the guts, and then Grimmjow's kill had fucking gone and _turned his back on him_ and blasted them all thirty yards away with sheer force, a burst of entirely unfocused, unshaped power.

Then some Quincy guy with a pink mohawk had snatched command right out of Prissy Moustache's hands despite all visible rank insignias and given the only orders that would have saved them from the trap snapping closed on them.

Grimmjow's kill had stayed behind.

"You're not going to deny it, Grimmjow, are you?" Luppi asked, playfully vicious. "We could all smell him on you. You could have sneaked right into his sleeping bag as we left and he'd have thought you were just after a second round. Tssk."

"It's cute how you're trying to make it my fault for not killing him earlier when you failed to even scratch any of them," Grimmjow replied placidly, eyelids heavy with boredom, and waited until Doctor Aizen was leaning down to take the cross off Kurosaki's wrist to add, "Also, that's not a corpse."

Aizen jerked back; Luppi snatched him with two tentacles and yanked him out of range even as a short lance of golden light burst out of Kurosaki's hand. 

"Asshole," groaned the Quincy as everyone tensed up all over again. 

Grimmjow snorted. "Should have shot him sooner. Your own fault for waiting." 

He padded closer, tail flicking slowly at the tip as Kurosaki forced himself onto his flank. Grimmjow's arm was still streaked with blood where he'd gouged the side of the Quincy's waist trying to pierce him through. He brought his wrist to his mouth, licked a streak of blood off his armored skin. Kurosaki snorted through his nose, panting harshly, eyes rolled up to watch him. He seemed like he couldn't even lift his head but he might still be faking it...

A real fucking shame Grimmjow was gonna have to finish him off here and now. He'd been so _pissed off_ after that blowjob, he'd been looking forward to a chance to hunt that fucker down and dick him down good and proper. After a _real_ fight, not a 'oh hey I'm gonna turn my back on you because my buddy got scratched and his evac is more important than you trying to _yank the spine out of my back_.'

Mind, Grimmjow was the one who'd taken him down nice and hard after the barrier went down but he didn't delude himself -- it had only gone down because Kurosaki had exhausted himself. And then Grimmjow had put a single burst of psychic force right through his sternum, and it was all over. Boring.

Kurosaki should never be boring. How dare he.

"Remarkable," Aizen said from a dozen feet away, pretending like he hadn't been caught with his pants down. "How _did_ you avoid the force of the attack stopping your heart and lungs?"

Kurosaki's eyelids twitched and he glanced down at him, but he didn't reply to that.

Wasn't a mystery, anyway. He used raw energy like a shield. And his body had to be used to the density, with the output they'd just seen. Telekinetic shields were usually created _outside_ of things, because matter interfered with gathering energy, but... At this level he sure as hell could afford it.

Grimmjow sank down onto his haunches, balancing on his toes and claws digging into the earth, watched Kurosaki. Kurosaki watched him back wordlessly. Blood and saliva had collected dust in thick streaks on his face. For a moment he wanted to reach out, wipe them off with his hand. The exhausted, tight-jawed, watchful look on Kurosaki's face should only be marred by fresh blood or Grimmjow's come. He would look so nice. Defiant even while half-broken.

But no.

"You gonna finish him off or do I gotta hold your hand?" Nnoitra drawled. 

Grimmjow's tail lashed in a slow arc. "Depends, you want your hand back afterwards or can I chew it up and shit it out?"

"No eating teammates," Nelliel said absently as she wandered back into the torn-up battlefield, Pesche at her heels, both of them still shifted up -- though Pesche let it go the second he was amongst the foot soldiers again. "Also, we lost the track."

"Figures," Nnoitra said, sneering. 

She predictably ignored him entirely. Frowning, she checked on Aizen with a quick glance, then walked up to Grimmjow's not-yet-a-kill to peer at him, horns canted dubiously to the side. "...Oh. Durable." Her face looked as unenthused about it as Grimmjow felt. "We might be able to use him as bait..."

"Won't work," Kurosaki rasped out, head still laying heavy in the dust. "Won't... come back."

Nelliel crouched down beside Grimmjow, a hand down between her hooves for balance as she leaned down to meet the Quincy's eyes. "Why not? You're very powerful. And the only time I see Quincies leave their men behind is when the whole squad is dead."

He snorted, quirked her a half-smile that didn't even look all that smirky, all that mocking -- that Grimmjow could have taken as the smile of someone hearing a good joke.

"Gemischt," was all he said. Grimmjow frowned.

"The fuck is that?"

Aizen walked up behind them, making sure to stand between Nelliel and Grimmjow. Grimmjow kinda thought Kurosaki was entirely able to ignore the two of them and their no doubt immediate counterattack to spear him up right through the gap. If he was gonna die here, the guy seemed the type to make sure he was gonna finish the mission first. 

"What did he say?"

"Gemischt," Nelliel repeated, frowning thoughtfully. "Isn't that a caste, or something? Low-caste?"

Grimmjow's ears flattened on instinct, even before he could fully register the new, intense expression on Aizen's face. 

"It means mixed. Our new friend here is a hybrid. How far up your family tree?" he asked, smiling genially.

Kurosaki's jaw tightened. 

"It stops counting after four generations, doesn't it? So... Great-grandparent? Grandparent?" Stubborn silence. Aizen's smile widened. "A _parent_? At this level of power? _Well_." 

"Why does it matter?" Luppi asked, scowling as he moved to Kurosaki's other side. He'd had to reabsorb a few tentacles already and looked strained maintaining the four he had left. Nnoitra was mostly out of resurrección and so was everybody else but the three of them, but Nnoitra kind of spend his life with one toe in resurrección anyway. Fucker liked to feel tall or something.

"Oh, there's a _reason_ they're so obsessed with blood purity. Quincy genes are mostly recessive, and baseline humans are psychic nulls. A crossbreed will always be weaker than their Quincy parent. So either this young man is a bastard child of the imperial line itself, or..." 

... Or. 

Yeah, if the Emperor of all Pure Prisses had sired a half-breed, it would have been smothered in its cradle before the scandal could topple their whole government, not sent off to play with a heir candidate. The whole squad would have firebombed themselves rather than leave Kurosaki and his incriminating genes in enemy hands.

Grimmjow felt a little odd about that, no lie.

The doctor pulled something out of his pocket, held it out to Grimmjow without even gracing him with a glance. "Blood sample, please."

"M' a genetic fluke," Kurosaki growled through his teeth. Grimmjow accepted the sampler, expressionless in the face of this helpless fury. 

Then he shoved forward with his knee out, pinning the young man down onto his back right on the burn wound his desgarrón had left. Kurosaki choked, power sparking out of him, kicking up a cloud of dust. Grimmjow's bone armor repealed most of the strength but he could still feel it, a brief heave trying to get Grimmjow's weight off him. 

The power died out. Kurosaki flattened back with a breathless whimper, batted weakly at his knee with a single, cross-wearing hand.

Grimmjow wanted to have beaten him up barehanded into this -- this weakness, this exhaustion. This not-quite-surrender. It chafed.

He snatched up Kurosaki's right wrist and pulled it upwards, stabbed the sampler right in the underside of his arm, pressed the trigger. Kurosaki hissed, his other hand trying to dig nails through Grimmjow's armored thigh -- planted his feet and tried to heave his pelvis up and only managed to press Grimmjow's knee harder into his burn wound, his breastbone into which the dissipating power of Grimmjow's attack must have left hairline fractures.

Aizen read the results of the blood test and immediately started chuckling. Well. Nice to have known you, kid. Grimmjow's stomach fell a little with disappointment. A war prisoner may have been trouble, may have escaped and needed to be hunted down. An experiment wasn't gonna be up for doing any of that.

But they needed to keep the good doctor happy.

He'd gone up to their government for collaboration and then promptly betrayed it, kidnapped untold numbers of low-caste Arrancars to experiment on, sold state secrets right and left that he shouldn't even had access to -- done so much shit Grimmjow didn't even have the clearance to gaze upon the folders containing the reports and never mind reading the _titles_. 

Grimmjow knew he was responsible for the drug cocktail that boosted their soldiers' biokinesis, too, that had taken him from a scrappy low-caste asshole from the slums and brought him to the cusp of nobility, but Las Noches had the formula now and governments weren't usually big on feeling indebted. (Grimmjow didn't feel indebted either, or only in the sense that he might say 'thanks' before he plunged a hand through his ribs the second he got the order.)

Genius boy here had to have done something interesting more recently than that. Because now he smiled at Nelliel and told her, "Please arrange for the transport of our new guest," as in they'd had to go to town on a whole elite Quincy squad to protect his lily-white ass and now he wanted their most powerful agent brought right into his secret hideout -- and Nelliel said jack shit about it.

Grimmjow didn't say anything either.

(He took the cross off Kurosaki's wrist before he allowed Edrad and Nakeem to move in with their improvised stretcher, stuffed it down his front pocket. Kurosaki glared weakly for two seconds and then let his eyes drift closed.)

\--------

It hurt. Whatever he'd injected Ichigo with, it burned. From hair to toe nails, it burned and prickled and wavered sickeningly.

He kept wanting to talk about Ichigo's dad, too. Dad was Dad was Dad -- and Ichigo wasn't gonna say a damn thing about how normal he was or wasn't, wasn't even gonna think about it. None of his family belonged here, in his pain or the man's mouth.

It was really easy to think about the burning discomfort instead. It was easier than thinking about the greasy, smug void that was the doctor's lack of heart.

\--------

It hurt.

It was hurting him. (Changing him.) He really... didn't like that.

\--------

He _really_ didn't like that.

Next time it came in to get him he was gonna try hurting it first.

\--------

"You know Luppi would stop riding your dick if you let him _ride your dick_ , right?"

Grimmjow rolled his eyes. Three fucking weeks of sitting on his ass and Nelliel had noticed he was going stir crazy and taken him up to the top of the secret bunker, for which he was grateful. But now instead of gazing at giant water lilies with tentacle legs majestically migrating upriver or the creepily immense sky or some shit she was trying to _talk_. 

"You know Nnoitra would love to ride yours too, right?"

She made a moue, leaned her upper body on the parapet and rested her chin on her ample boobs. Grimmjow spared them a glance, because hey, and then wondered if that didn't hurt.

"Oh, I know," she replied somberly, "but what he _says_ is, he wants me kneeling naked in an apron at his feet as he jizzes all over my face, which he has now mentioned every time he's gotten drunk on this mission and the last time twice. You've got to be some special kind of sick to lust after someone you hate."

... Oh hey look, a weirdass... Birdish. Thing. 

Cough. 

"Fuck you, you're vanilla," Grimmjow muttered, crossing his arms defensively. Nelliel blinked at him and then threw him a little sideways smirk. 

"Alright," she said, almost soothing except she didn't mean it, "I should have said 'lust after someone you _despise'_."

"I fuckin' despise every single Quincy I've ever fucked."

"Even the half-breed ones?"

Grimmjow would have bristled for real if he'd been even a little bit in resurrección. Upper lip curling up, he glared hotly at her, feeling a lot less amused by the banter suddenly. "Okay, why the fuck are you all over my sex life, _Comandante_."

It just. Kept _coming up_. When it wasn't Luppi making comments about his lack of prowess in both the bedroom and the murder grounds it was Nnoitra proclaiming loudly that he'd have gone for the electricity bitch or the fire bitch or any bitch with breasts and Grimmjow had to be daft to prefer dick while Tesra agreed with his mouth and probably sobbed like a baby later on. (Grimmjow didn't even prefer dick. If Kurosaki had blocked his shots with a cunt attached he'd have gotten riled up the same way.) 

Aizen's squinty-eyed assistant had picked it up too and kept offering to slip Grimmjow into the guard rotation on the labs, which, fuck him. Grimmjow was a goddamn fracción leader, he didn't do the shit tasks.

He was fucking good and ready to be over it, but none of them were _letting him_. 

"Well, I kind of implied I was getting you alone up here so we could hook up!" Nelliel said cheerfully, turning onto one elbow to watch him. 

She was fucking giving him whiplash with this bullshit. He'd hit on her back in Las Noches and she had eyerolled him off. "What the fuck--"

"But actually it's so we're not overheard when I give you your real orders, Espada-hopeful Jaegerjaquez."

She stood up straight, all traces of mirth gone from her eyes. Grimmjow straightened too, without a single thought. 

Espada. Fuck. He'd put in his request for induction into those elite ranks months ago; heard nothing back, but you usually didn't until you heard a no. It was only bad if you heard a no fast. His heart sped up. "Promotion mission?"

"Mm-hm."

Fuck. _Yes_. His claws slid out without thought, fingers curling and uncurling. Eager. "Awaiting my orders, Espada."

"It's easy." She stepped closer, leaned against his side and let her hair slide over the other side of her face, and her voice dropped until the wind covered it almost entirely. "Some parts of the government are so interested in Aizen's potential for new discoveries, they will let him betray us over and over. Our part believes the threat he poses is much bigger than any half-hearted advance we may beg or trick out of him."

Grimmjow started to smile, long and toothy; bowed his head so he could hide it in her hair. "He dies?"

"He dies. Don't worry about the research, someone else is handling that. Your job is to accident him. Make it believable enough for his backers on camera or for whichever spies they've got."

Grimmjow wrapped an arm around her waist and squeezed in sheer glee, though if she or anyone else asked he was just making the hookup cover story believable.

"Right now?" he asked, already starting to plan it out. She wasn't gonna give him hints; an Espada was supposed to be able to improvise. You didn't give them detailed orders, you gave them a target and then you stepped out of the way. He had no doubt that she would be ready to step in and sort his shit if he flubbed it, but it was part of the test for him to manage himself now. 

Nelliel laughed at him. "Why not? Take me to your bedroom, stud," she added, smirking, and he found it almost fun to take her hand and lead her down the stairs. 

And if it made Nnoitra fuckin' seethe watching them pass him by, all the better. 

_He'd_ had an enemy on their knees wearing his jizz, and his enemy had been _willing_. Suck on _that_ , Gilga.

\--

"Hey, Gin."

Aizen's assistant blinked up at him, and then smiled fakely. Grimmjow stuffed his hands deeper in his pockets, hunched his shoulders just a tad. (He didn't want to make it too telegraphed.)

"Yes?"

"Nel wants me to try every task we're handlin' at least once," he said with an eye roll. "You got any openings on the roster?"

The man's grey eyebrows went up; then he smiled harder. " _Nel_ , huh?"

Grimmjow side-eyed him with put-upon defensiveness. Look at this teasable face. Who the hell even had secrets when they had a brand-new lover to be smirked at about.

"Ahhh, I see. Learn your subordinates' tasks so you can direct them better, right? I bet she asked nice."

Short sigh. "Yeah."

"Sure, lemme message Pesche. He was up for guard rotation after Tesra. Tōsen-taichō and his men are handling the regular day to day things, so it's just walking the labs with a fresh eye looking for potential security breaches, you don't hafta touch anything."

Well, wasn't that real convenient. It was a good thing Gin was quick-witted, or else Grimmjow would have had to explain his cover story, and people who explained their lies too much just sounded even more like they were lying. Let people provide their own explanations, though, and suddenly that worked smoother.

He watched absently as Gin typed on a touch-screen integrated into the data tower (no handheld anything in Aizen's labs, bad for data security), and then followed him past the office and through the heavy doors that led to the inner rooms of the bunker.

"It's not very big. Chemicals this way, Genetics that way, subjects pens down the stairs. At this hour Doctor Aizen should be in Genetics."

Grimmjow started building a floor plan in his head, noting down where Tōsen's Seireijin guards were stationed. He wasn't sure where Aizen had found Gin but as assistants went he could have found worse. Damn fast to anticipate your needs, not even gotta word them first --

... Come to think of it, it _was_ real convenient.

"Data retrieval, huh," he mused.

Gin looked guilelessly at him. "Hmm?"

Grimmjow smirked, shook his head. "Nothin'." He wondered if Nelliel would dock points. Managing to find the right guys to help had to be a useful skill too. "Okay, I'll get started. Later, Gin."

\--

The bunker had been dug into the cliff from the top, a large vertical shaft, and then expanded to the sides here and there where the rock allowed it.

The bottom of the shaft didn't have individual rooms built in, had been left as a cavernous single space; the containment units stood like glass-walled boxes in a wide circle along the wall between pillars and crisscrossing support beams glittering with force fields. A freight elevator in the back corner made bringing the cages up and down real easy. 

Grimmjow started ambling around, crouching here and there to look at the maglev rails under the boxes, the biometric locks keeping them in place. A lot were empty; some had beds with straps on them, with dead-eyed ex-people still breathing along for some reason.

Kurosaki's shoebox was right by the freight elevator.

Grimmjow knew it was Kurosaki because of the hair. Also because it was the only specimen still moving around.

Bed frame twisted into mangled ruins, flattened into the glass angles of the containment unit by unimaginable pressure, mattress and sheets and restraints just so much torn-up fluff packed in every gap. 

"Well, didn't you make a mess," he said quietly, more to himself than to the creature that had once been a Quincy. A bone-white, masked face lifted up; gold-on-black eyes found his. Bright orange hair tangled around forward-facing horns and spilled over white shoulders in messy waves, the unchecked growth a typical side effect of careless resurrección. 

The glass box shuddered. Debris started flying like a dust storm inside; long orange hair flew to tangle worse. Outside of the box the force field glowed with redirected power. 

Then a _secondary_ force field started up. Damn. 

He knew the specs on that type of field. They'd hold back a category five psychic blast singlehandedly. Kurosaki needed two of them.

His comm unit crackled. " _Finding something interesting with the specimen, Specialist Jaegerjaquez?_ " Aizen purred unctuously into his ear. Grimmjow had to force himself not to sneer.

"You sure a cat-five field is enough?" he said as he watched Kurosaki stand on wobbly legs. "If he can overwhelm the first he can overwhelm the second."

" _You show great trust in his endurance, I see. Not to worry, we linked them up. Any overflow will be passed on to the secondary layer before it can do damage._ "

"... Yeah, that's only good if the linkage holds up. It ain't what they're made for." 

" _I assure you my technician is very good_ ," Aizen said with a touch of cool disapproval. Grimmjow was already going into a crouch to check the underside of the box.

He knew very little about force field generators, to be honest, apart from how to fuck them up.

One or probably several of the native Hueco Mundo creatures that had contributed to his genes had been desert-dwellers -- and when everything around you was shadowed and cold and every single prey to be had was as white as the sands, you found ways to notice them anyway. People knew that in resurrección his hearing got better, but that was because his ears changed shape, too, and it hadn't been worth hiding. His eyes, now, they didn't seem to change at all.

There were parts of the circuitry underneath the magnetically levitated prison box that were running pretty hot.

He looked up -- found Kurosaki crouched in front of him, mirroring his position exactly, head canted in the same direction. Grimmjow hadn't seen him move. He didn't twitch; it would be bad if he did. His heart kicked a bit though.

Goring horns arcing out before him, brushing the glass; a thick lizardy tail curled behind. White bone spines protruding on his armored shoulders. The only colors on him were the hair escaping from the bone mask shielding his face and a few deep red trails on his face and chest. 

The way he looked at Grimmjow was all predatory interest and zero recognition.

"Did you _have_ to use a fucking sand dragon, though," he drawled past the disappointment. 

" _I will never again have such a specimen land in my lap. I might as well put it through its paces. Unless it wasn't a one-off and its parents were allowed to breed again..._ "

\-- Maybe a little recognition.

Maybe a pulse of hot power, stretching, trying to outgrow the force field. Maybe clawed fingers screeching on glass, a heavy tail lashing slowly. That maw opening to breathe in deep.

"Too bad the mental load was too much," Grimmjow said, skin slowly hardening under his clothes in pure instinctive reaction. "Nobody's taming a sand dragon, and the guy looks full-out gone." 

The cameras hidden in the walls came up hazed an odd not-really-red in his infrared vision. He leaned his upper body a little closer to the cage, bending over to hide the fingers slipping into his front pocket to tug the focus cross out.

Kurosaki tilted his head like a curious cat, eyes glinting gold, and slowly flexed his right wrist.

Grimmjow remembered the way his hand had moved; a practiced flip to get the cross to nestle into Kurosaki's palm and push it so close to his throat that Grimmjow had felt cold static on his skin.

Quincy crosses were weird. They called the metal sterling silver, but it wasn't. Grimmjow didn't like the way it grasped at his energy, tried to reshape, to alter it. 

It was definitely gonna get Kurosaki's attention, though, if he had a dragon's senses, even if he stared because it was shiny and not because he remembered. 

Grimmjow straightened up, slowly unfolding, and in the middle of his movement flicked the cross through the force field. The clinking of metal on cement was covered by Kurosaki's sudden roar. 

"Couple half-assed welds down there," he said when the ex-Quincy, new Arrancar was done bristling all his spines and growling so low it made the glass vibrate. "It'll probably hold a while but I were you I'd have it redone sooner than later."

He completed his tour of the room, checking out a couple more force fields with an air of boredom on his face and every single muscle he had ready to cut and run at a moment's notice, then he went up the freight elevator. He brought out his pads and made sure to rub his palms against the walls before he left, though. There weren't many creatures who could pretend to prey on whatever it was Grimmjow had in his cells, but a sand dragon was a good bet. 

\--

Hungry. Angry. Trapped.

Hungry. Angry. _Trapped_.

(It never changed and never stopped and he couldn't do anything about it, he couldn't do anything about the pain and his body being wrong ( _not_ wrong) and his _mind_ being wrong ( _ **not wrong**_ ) and there was nothing to do. So he slept. (Not really.) He (not he) paced and destroyed and destroyed further and why not. What else was there to do.)

Angry. Powerless. So many (enemy combatants) potential prey taunting him just out of reach. Making him sleep and then leaving their stink on him. Always figuring it out when he faked sleep and he faked weakness. Claws too weak to break through and limbs too weak to break through and _willpower_ too--

Huh.

New prey. Dangerous, sharp prey. Watching him like it planned for a fight. _Feeling_ like it planned for a fight. Sharp-and-ready prey with a small shiny thing that (--mine?--) that caught at his (mine!) caught at his attention, that tugged on his space, the air all around him, the -- the distance his tail (tail?) could reach where he knew everything that moved. 

"-- _wasn't a one-off and its parents were allowed to breed again--"_

Noises buzzing with meanings he didn't care about, he just cared that this farther-away prey's smell was all over him and how dare it...

(parents?)

... He was an adult, though, so it was strange, this pinch of... Who cared if. If. 

Young in the nest. Hatchlings. Two. Clutchmates? No. He was older. They must be his. (... _guys had dinner? let me... aw, it's just fireworks... next time that guy at school calls you that, here's how you make a fist._ ) His clutch, his. Nest.

Family.

The sharp prey threw the shining thing under his cage.

It... Itched. Grabbed. Like it was trying to eat him drip by drip, suck out his power, like it --

( _The power is still yours even when being refined, idiot. Don't just let it **go**._)

Oh. Right. He knew how to do that. He'd been drilled and drilled and drilled until he could do it in his sleep (it was never good enough, never tight and controlled enough, it always --)

(--exploded.)

Ohh. He breathed deep, flexing and stretching his muscles slowly, rounding his back. Making sure nothing was too stiff to move. He felt with his... His awareness of things that were in his space. He felt the buzzing things that repulsed his touch and swallowed his power and tore it out of him. The shining... The cross. Its pull was stronger. So if he reached for it -- careful, gentle, if he let it pull his power _through_ the field and into itself and _through itself_ and _out_.

If he twisted it into fire.

( _His best rating is the most useless. Empathy, three point seven! Telepathy, receptive only -- at least he's not mind-blind. Telekinesis, three-two for power, one for fine control. Pyrokinesis, **zero**. Let's not even mention the rarer gifts_.)

If he twisted it into heat and if he felt along the tingly currents that stole his strength away, and if he heated them more... Hm. Yes.

He crouched down, coiled his tail around himself, and slowly started to work his way through the invisible trap that he could feel increasingly well under him, coming to life in traceries from red-hot to white and then molten. 

At the other end of the room the sharp prey marked the walls. Come and get me, its heart said, but full of trickery. He was/wasn't the target the sharp prey was hunting right now. Hah. 

He was too angry for amusement right now. But he was too busy with molten things to be angry.

A few moments after the sharp prey had left the annoying prodding hounds came, from the other exit, full of grumpy resentment toward the sharp prey and not enough fear of him.

"Nothing _showed_ on screen, Taichō, and anyway Jaegerjaquez isn't--"

"I do not care what Specialist Jaegerjaquez is or isn't. He is not loyal to Aizen-sama. We check."

Aizen- _sama_ , huh. Dad used that word sometimes but mostly when he was frustrated at jerks, and then he hushed himself and pretended he hadn't said it--

He shook his head, lashed his tail in odd, confused frustration, but then the noisy prey was in front of his trap, full of 'I don't want to but I have to' and nervous, smothered fear -- fear of him, of the other one, the snappish one who felt...

The edges of their spaces touched and then he knew that it knew, that it could feel the tug of the cross and the power he poured out with steady intensity and it was about to call out --

No. ( _no_.) 

He threw power into the cross, brutal and fast, maybe too much all at once; he needed to conserve his strength for later but there wouldn't be a later if the the trap didn't break. He jumped up with his limbs curled underneath to protect his belly, with the space around him hardened like a second set of armor; and then he was deaf and blind as a roaring light threw him upwards anyway.

\--

Aizen wasn't fucking letting him go. 

Grimmjow had done the nosey looking around bullshit for the cameras and the playing along with polite gossip with bored reluctance, and instead of being glad he could get back to work Aizen kept finding excuses to keep fucking talking.

That and Tōsen wasn't here. He'd been made. He didn't know how but he could tell when someone was playing for time. He considered just interrupting the guy's monologue and walking off but that might look too suspicious when they'd been told to be respectful by their superiors.

"... And of course the possibilities of _re_ -hollowifying a born Arrancar are endless, should we only find appropriate gene donors of other races first for the hollow to colonize..."

"We don't call 'em hollows anymore," Grimmjow lied blandly. "Kinda anti-PC. Makes it sound like Hueco Mundo ain't a normal world with normal alien things but some hellscape fulla demons that don't deserve to be studied the same. Just gasped about 'n shit. Kinda racist against the local fauna, in fact."

He had the pleasure of seeing the man actually give him a look that, for not even a second, glinted cold and irritated instead of smug.

(To be honest, yeah, the local fauna of Hueco Mundo _was_ horrifying and creepy, and damn straight it was a death world not fit for genteel, civilized humans to live. Any Arrancar worth the name was damn well proud of it.)

"Right, of course," Aizen said with a perfect smile full of understanding and goodwill. Grimmjow hardened the skin under his clothes some more, the base of his spine aching as his tail tried to grow out. 

Then the floor heaved up under him.

Grimmjow had been expecting something like this, but he'd had no idea of the scale. He went flying; Aizen went flying; the equipment went flying, the furniture -- hopping up and crashing down, spilling experiments and computers everywhere. The lights flickered out; the emergency lights came on, washing everything an urgent red. He landed on a toppled-over metal cabinet, claws screeching for a hold as he realized that the floor was still moving, tilting toward -- _fuck_.

He kicked off the cabinet, sending it sliding faster toward the hole in the floor. The supports had to have come down because everything in the room was tilted toward it but after a few seconds waiting they seemed to settle -- clattering noises of falling rubble slowly dying down.

"... Doctor Aizen?" he called out, cautiously moving through the red gloom.There was dust everywhere. One of the lab assistants or maybe a guard was sobbing.

Grimmjow considered the chance that the cameras would be down and that the guy would have been crushed by falling rubble... Hm. Not high enough. Aizen came from the Rukon diaspora, Grimmjow had been told, the explosion of barely-more-than-baseline refugees from the fall of the Seireitei two or three decades back; and his only gift was the kind of telekinesis that mostly got used to close the fridge door when you had your hands full. But fear for your life had a way of boosting things up.

He'd be too lucky if all the cameras had gone out at once, too. 

Acid bubbling hot in this corner, warm puddling blood and slowing-down sobs over there, shorted-out electronics... "Doc?"

Silence answered him -- and then something exploded again downstairs. Tōsen yelled out, " _Aizen-sa_ \--", and then red and gold light washed through the destroyed labs; fire licked through the hole, almost reaching the ceiling. 

Aizen was standing at the other end of the lab, unhurt, staring back at Grimmjow. Smiling.

... Yeah, Grimmjow didn't like that. And Kurosaki was about to finish off Tōsen and come hunting for more in a hot second, but Grimmjow couldn't leave it to chance either; the guy might still escape. "Don't move," he said, mostly for the cameras, "I'm coming to get you."

He was fucking gonna get him indeed. Maybe he could trip him through the hole into the still-burning specimen containment area below --

Kurosaki exploded out of the hole in the floor, streaked with grimy smoke and blood. Grimmjow immediately dropped low behind toppled-over furniture, watched as a long dragon tail smashed through debris as Kurosaki whirled to -- oh, to face Aizen.

Well, wasn't that convenient. Grimmjow still started forward to give the impression that he was doing his bodyguarding job.

Armored skin highlighting back muscles closer to steel cables than to gym-bred lumps, a long, lean body -- a runner, a swimmer, something enduring, close to the bone. Serrated spikes rising over shoulders and running down shoulder blades, bladed heels like eagle talons. 

Kurosaki had his _back_ on him. Was jumping for _Aizen_. Grimmjow was faking jumping to Aizen's rescue pretty convincingly but he knew he wasn't gonna make it even if he tried for real, and besides he still needed to be able to go for the exit, which was _behind him_ , once the guy was dead.

It was a bit of a surprise when something slammed into him like a wrecking ball and sent him crashing straight through three files cabinets. 

He blinked his eyes open -- his mask had come through by reflex but his skull ached bright and deep -- and found a white bone mask with deep red streaks staring into his own, orange hair flying in the backdraft of the expanding fire, maw wide open to bite.

\--

This was the prey that had touched him when asleep -- that had _made_ him asleep, that always, always fucking made him stink of its hands. That left his head slimy with the sense-memory of smug satisfaction, of possessive disdain. 

(That had _threatened his sisters_.)

It had to die. The sharp prey would wait. The sharp prey was fun hunting, this one was just. No. He needed to erase it. 

A dark cave of a room lit by flickering flames -- not enough smoke to block his view. He kicked off the air hard, claws out; tackled it. Its face twisted in pain, brown hair falling into brown eyes. It stank of the wrong-scent that had been rubbed into him.

Its heart didn't feel _smug-surprised-impossible!_. It felt _fuck-cannot die-what happened who cares **I must live**_ , it felt.

Sharp. Serrated-sharp, ferally bright, like unwilling respect and heated desire and how-dare-you/oh.

'Thoumeaux,' he found himself thinking, and was confused -- nonsense sounds, nothing he -- Gremmy Thoumeaux. Some blond, cherubic-faced little... His. Packmate? _Squad_ mate. Like a packmate but not as good, not as chosen. Dead because he'd failed to protect it.

Telepath _who had liked to_ \--

Snatching the sharp prey with both hands, he threw himself into a roll. He kicked the sharp prey off him after two rotations, sent it flying (it righted itself in the air, ricocheted away, very good), spat a torrent of fire across the room. He landed on all fours through the smoke, hissing. 

He pushed-felt at the space around him, stretched it out farther than the length of his tail until it thinned out too much to offer any useful feedback. Metal planes and burning paper and dead things. Nothing alive.

He wasn't sure if the smug prey would know how to fake that, how to fool him that way. Thoumeaux hadn't, but. He -- _Ichigo_ hadn't known how to do it either, had he? Ichigo hadn't known yet. How to feel the world around him without eyes, just with the -- his, his mind's strength pushing on things just strong enough to _feel_ them, not move them yet. (It seemed odd that he hadn't known how when it was so natural, so easy.)

The (little mindfucking teehee twerp) (my fault, still my fault, still my--) _Thoumeaux_ hadn't known how to fake it. But maybe it could have if it had read it in Ichigo's mind. He couldn't trust it.

"Kurosaki," the sharp prey rasped out, moving warily not-too-close as it scented the area, coughed on the smoke. He checked with a quick pulse-touch -- yes, still the right one -- tilted his head toward it. "What the fuck just--"

"Congratulations on seeing through my illusion," the smug prey said from somewhere there was nothing alive at all. 

It kept talking. Ichigo stopped listening. 

The room had three exits -- the door, the hole in the floor, the freight elevator. The hole and the elevator only went down into the prisons and the fire, but that level had another door and he knew there was a way to the outside there. (Stairs -- the icon glowing on the wall said stairs). 

The smug prey could sneak around him from any angle at all. The more he did nothing and the farther it would escape. 

He was sure the sharp prey would survive. It wore proper armor, like him.

He stretched out both hands (no cross, so wrong) and fired long lines of black not-light across the walls. Then he roared, straight up, and brought the ceiling down.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, check out the new tags please. This story now contains Dragon Dick! Woowee.

"Kurosaki, you _fucker._ " 

Back braced against the floor, Grimmjow kicked a piece of ceiling off his chest; then he crawled out of the gap he'd ended up wedged into, coughing out dust. Where the hell was he now? Even the emergency lights had died; something was on fire half a block away but that really wasn't much light. Electrical devices and scorched masonry cooled slowly, shading everything down to cool not-grays and touches of lukewarm not-red. Lots of smothered embers under the rubble.

His hand found something cool and smooth -- glass. Plastiglass. One of the specimen containers. Shit, Kurosaki had brought them back down one level. Above him, silence, broken by brief sizzling noises, clattering pebbles as the six habitable levels dug out of the stone over the labs settled their weight.

Something living-hot moved in the corner of his eye. Grimmjow passed a padded hand on his fully masked face, feeling for cracks in the dense bone he'd created. All good. Bruised and battered underneath but his armor was still intact.

He sank himself into the quiet of the hunting mind and started ghosting across the rubble.

He could hear vague echoes of voices calling, several floors and load-bearing walls away. A muted emergency alarm. A sudden block of concrete crashing onto a containment unit, throwing sparks. 

Silence. Stillness.

"It truly is a shame that all those cameras are dead," the warm spot in Grimmjow's vision said with a smile in his voice. "A shame for you, of course. As I have no need to restrain myself any longer."

... So one of the cameras was still live -- or Aizen wanted him to think so.

Probably the second one, because otherwise he would never admit he had more shit in reserve out loud. (And fucking hell but hadn't he snowed everyone with his bullshit 'oh I'm barely rated as psychics go haha' routine.) Stalking in a slowly tightening spiral, Grimmjow noted more blocks of obstacles, more blacker-than-black shadows, cold and dead. More crawling fires under the rubble with all the wires and the upholstery.

"Even more of a shame that my grand experiment ended so disappointingly, and now you are alone with me, Specialist Jaegerjaquez. Or should I say, Espada-hopeful Jaegerjaquez."

\-- _How the fuck_. Grimmjow was jarred into stillness for a too-long second; he threw himself ahead by pure instinct, no reason he could tell except he'd been _made_ , he'd been found, he had to _fucking get out of there_.

Something exploded behind him, showering the area in shrapnel, cracking against his armor and sending him rolling noisily. He kicked up into the air, grabbed _himself_ with his telekinesis -- no noise, no tracks that way but he had to shove against the ground at a distance to keep himself up; it was a strain to keep steady.

Kurosaki was dead? No, that was ridiculous. That murder-tank of a primal Arrancar, that impregnable shield of a Quincy. No.

But then why wasn't he attacking. Why wasn't he --

Grimmjow was thinking too much, and Aizen was a telepath.

Teeth bared in a silent snarl, he gave himself over to the desert beasts his ancestors had seen and gone, _this one, that's the one I want in my blood_.

Leap down. Circle. Close in.

"Ah well. I don't suppose you'll reconsider your allegiance now... But as it stands I am now out of quite a lot of specimens anyway, so it probably is more advantageous to me if you don't."

The words were meaningless. The tone told him nothing but more calm smugness, more challenge, trying to lead him to a trap. He could pinpoint the origin of the noise to the square inch, and the body-warmth in his eyes was clear.

Yeah, he'd gotten tricked once. He charged up an array of spears of power with brutal intensity, sprayed the whole area around him with sudden blinding light and stone-piercing rounds.

His heat vision still said there was someone right in front of him, but on the normal spectrum there was nothing. The stone behind it had a neat scorched hole. He slashed his claws behind him as he whirled, twisting his bone armor into a blade coming out of his forearm. Something snagged on the tip, shredded like flesh and cloth. A shallow cut. 

All his senses still told him the space before him was empty. He cracked the bone blade off the back of his forearm with a quick snap, flicked it into his other hand, and slashed blind. Something impacted like body armor under cloth, and then his free hand was shooting forward all claws out to snatch up a handhold.

Then the world went crazy with deafening noise, artillery fire and impact pain. Suddenly he was whirling in freefall with his feet on the ground, fit to throw up with motion sickness as he had never known. Hissing between his teeth, reeling from the pain, he hauled the handful he'd caught closer and stabbed the body he could guess at but not _know_ right where it should be putting its guts.

It hit. Flesh, guts. He knew those. The effort he had to put in that. The weight of the target's body as it caught and then gave under the blade point.

Aizen chuckled in his ear like it didn't hurt at all. "Ah, too bad, my dear," he said gently. "That was a good try. Biokinetic healing is such a fascinating gift, I just had to have it. Now I really can't let you live."

Grimmjow's body swayed forward with a heavy impact against his back. He couldn't tell up from down with his inner ear fucked with, but he felt the way his blade pushed deeper, felt the sudden, mirrored stabs of pain on both his upper arms -- 

A wet crunch. Wet warmth splashing on his face, body heat before and behind him, both felt and seen.

A tug on his blade, the body he'd thought was Aizen heaving off it; a body against his back. Holding him. Grimmjow didn't even know if he was standing or kneeling but that didn't matter. He grew a slew of razor blades along his tail, lashed back --

Cracked them against bone armor denser than his own.

Exhaling hot and amused against his nape, Kurosaki minutely tightened the hold of his masked maw on the column of Grimmjow's vertebras.

Oh. Not bullets in his arms, but claws.

Bringing himself to cautious stillness, his back ramrod straight, Grimmjow breathed, eyes roaming the gloom before him. 

A body-hot shape was sprawled on the ground before his knees, hot coppery-scented liquid spreading out.

"You son of a _bitch_ ," he said, throat raspy with smoke and unwilling admiration. "Did you wait until I had Aizen pinned to steal my kill?"

Kurosaki made a raspy, chuckle-like sound in his throat.

Grimmjow's body was a live wire of adrenaline and feral glee. This half-insane primal son of a bitch had fucking _tricked_ him, tricked a _projective telepath_ with a rating of _at least four_ , and now he had him by the back of the neck and it sure as fuck wasn't because Kurosaki thought Grimmjow was a _kitten_.

The pain from the bullet wounds was gone. An illusion only. His arms, though, Kurosaki's claws went right through the shell to the muscle underneath, anchored in, and it burned.

Grimmjow was either gonna get eaten or get thoroughly laid. He grinned under the mask with all his teeth, grinned with the mask too, serrated jaws cracked open to chuckle harshly through the gap. Then he lashed back with both hands, planting all ten of his needle-claws through the bone and into the meat of Kurosaki's thighs. His biceps screamed in pain but he dug in anyway, teeth gritted and shoving every single ounce of power he had into reinforcing his nape, and still feeling the shell bow under the pressure of Kurosaki's jaws.

It was the slow, steady pressure of the asshole who could crunch through any time he felt like it and didn't... quite... yet.

"Let -- _go!_ "

Kurosaki let out a low, rolling growl, too light to mean it in any dangerous way. Then he shook his head, rattling Grimmjow's brain. His horn whipped Grimmjow in the temple; Grimmjow was thrown down onto his flank. 

Free. He didn't waste time sitting up or flipping himself around to face the sand dragon from inside its strike radius; he kicked, shoved at an angle against the floor with all his muscles and all his power to shoot free. A clawed hand skimmed his tail, just a little too slow to catch a grip.

His body was a live wire, heart thundering, savagely alive. So many imperatives -- escape and report -- make sure of Aizen's death -- _not let Kurosaki catch him_.

Aizen first. Grimmjow was a fucking pro, he was going to be an _Espada_ ; he was gonna make sure of his kill. He threw himself out of his zig-zagging path without warning, tail swinging like a counterweight, fell into a deep crouch; Kurosaki sailed over him with a screech of surprise. Grimmjow doubled back, power coursing through his muscles to speed him up. 

The smell of blood was everywhere but his eyes had adapted to the weak fire light. He landed astride the body, bone blade stabbing first through the spine and then the heart; yanked it free to -- a hand would do; a finger. Genetic sample, proof, trophy. (Holy shit the guy's face was _gone_. What had -- fuck, it wasn't just gone, it was _cooked_ , deep heat coming through, the smell unmistakable -- Kurosaki had _cooked Aizen's fucking brain_ while not letting Grimmjow feel any heat at all holy shit--)

He stabbed back down through a little finger joint and Kurosaki landed like a boulder three inches away. 

Grimmjow slashed power along his claws at him; it felt like moving through molasses, the air thick and heavy with condensed power. Kurosaki snatched up his slowed-down wrist, eyes gone narrow with displeasure through the mask, and sprang a long leg from underneath that found Grimmjow's guts and folded him in two. Oof. Teeth bared, he sliced the bone blade through the resistance; Kurosaki hopped back to spare his legs, crouched only a bare body length away. 

Stared, head low and horns angled to stab, haloed in reddish-black energy.

Grimmjow made damn sure he didn't break eye contact when he crouched as well and snatched up the detached finger to stuff it in his pocket. Then he crab-walked his cautious way off the corpse.

Kurosaki made a grumpy kind of noise, not really angry; shuffled forward, head tilted as he watched Grimmjow. 

His old Jagdarmee uniform was long gone and never mind any hospital gown Aizen might or might not have seen fit to offer him, but hardened skin and full-on armor plates shielded everything. He didn't _feel_ naked to Grimmjow, or only in the sense that classical statues were naked. But the back of Grimmjow's neck still pulsed hot with the imprint of his teeth, and damn if he didn't make a fine statue. Grimmjow didn't let himself glance down.

He'd wanted Kurosaki when he was a running, blurred shape half-seen through leaves and exploding golden shields, just another Quincy bastard who kept finding him when no one else ever had. He'd wanted him when he was a Quincy bastard with smart-assed retorts and a calm confidence that Grimmjow desperately wanted to ruin. Now here he was, out of his Quincy bastard mind and into the mind of one of the most dangerous creatures Grimmjow's hell pit of a world had ever spat out -- into that mind but still hanging on.

Grimmjow wanted him still. Damn it.

As he watched, Kurosaki straightened up, long heavy tail snaking through the rubble and dust. Hummed thoughtfully.

Then he sliced the whole arm right off the corpse. There was a crunch of cartilages and a wet snap of tearing muscles; then he brought it to his face, sniffed it diffidently -- then he _held it out for Grimmjow_. 

... Holy shit.

Yeah, he was -- he was definitely getting laid. Holy shit.

"Thanks?" he said, feeling weirdly conflicted and not too sure why. 

It wasn't about eating an enemy; biokinesis burned through stored fat like nothing else and he was gonna be starved half to fainting when he came out of resurrección as it was, and seriously fuck that guy. 

Arrancars didn't resort to cannibalism a tenth as often as outsiders thought they did. But the truth was, hollows -- the original inhabitants of Hueco Mundo -- they hadn't been anything like any other aliens Humanity had found before. They looked like it, sure -- there were broad and narrow categories of very similar creatures running around, and sometimes one of them would show up with a tiny version of itself. Easy to assume.

The truth was, before humans and their livestock landed, hollows had known jack shit about sexual reproduction. They fucking _budded_ \-- and they ate and assimilated something else, and repurposed parts of its shape, its abilities, until they ended up with some other design that they liked better. When they had accumulated too much mass to move easy, they expelled it into a tiny clone and that was it.

Sexual reproduction had other advantages, so nowadays they did both.

Arrancars were a lot more human than they were hollow, psychic gifts included -- but biokinesis before Hueco Mundo had always been about faster healing and maybe boosted strength; not bad but not the most versatile gift. Not until they'd gained the hollow abilities to devour and assimilate and reshape to play with. 

Aizen... Grimmjow didn't want to take that smug, manipulative bastard in. Nope. No thanks. 

But it... Wasn't... He could make do; he had before.

It was the way Kurosaki leaned down toward the meat, head canted doubtfully, even though he should have been ravenous; the way he was going to react, when he remembered.

... Also the ceiling was gonna cave in on them any second now.

Gravel rained down from the upper levels, a sudden spray, and then a second one. He chucked the arm over his shoulder, darted in to thwap Kurosaki's skull right between the horns, and shot for the staircase. The little green sign gleamed even through floating dust and smoke.

He got swiped at several times as he launched himself up the staircase, bounding and rebounding off the walls, the broken guardrail, the _air_ at a breakneck pace. Kurosaki batted at his tail several times, tried to catch his heels -- slapped his hip and threw him off course into a wall. Grimmjow's shoulder bumped mortar and then he had a weight on his back trying to push him chest-down into the stairs. Growling, Grimmjow mule-kicked back and shot a power blast blind behind himself and somehow wriggled free. Kurosaki's teeth snapped closed much too close to his ear. 

Third level -- he burst into the empty cafeteria, vaulted over five or six tables in one go, kicked one backwards into Kurosaki, who actually laughed. Yeah, it was funny, wasn't it, particle wood -- it caught fire with a whoosh and flew back over Grimmjow's head. He had to dodge low under it and damn well dive through the next doorway.

The official exits were all at the top of the hill. The cliff wall had a few arrow slits to let light in but you weren't supposed to exit through them; none of the windows opened. Apparently no one had told Grimmjow's squad because there Shawlong was, having neatly cut through a dozen feet of rock and several layers of sheet metal to open them a way, with Di Roy right beside him bouncing on his toes. Grimmjow's eyes went wide, seeing the fucking idiots _still there_ , the way they straightened up in _relief_ seeing Grimmjow burst out of the smoke --

" _Retreat!_ " he yelled; Shawlong slipped seamlessly into resurrección and threw Di Roy ahead of himself through the short tunnel. Grimmjow burst through on his heels without slowing down and hoped, seeing them flattened against the outside walls, clinging to the stone, that Kurosaki wouldn't think them worth the bother.

Then he was in freefall over the canyon. 

Down by the river on the grass there were the rest of the squad and some of Aizen's minions -- guards, cooks, janitors, whatever. He barely had time to throw Nelliel a stay-back hand signal before he cannonballed through the surface.

Underwater, muted almost-quiet, there was a second splash, not even two seconds after his own. He kicked off the bottom to pierce the surface.

Fracción -- intact, the two he'd left behind rappelling down the cliff, the rest with the main group. Nelliel -- starting to move toward the river, like she planned to fight Kurosaki for Grimmjow's life. Nnoitra on her heels with a growing sneer. Luppi wide-eyed and teeth bared, two tentacles already rising -- yeah, he was a hostile little bastard, too, wasn't he.

"Cat five!" Grimmjow called out even as he yanked himself out of the river, gripping the water with his telekinesis to keep it stiff enough to climb on. "Stand back!"

He allowed himself a single look backwards. Kurosaki had resurfaced as well; his massive tail undulated through the water, propelling him like a fucking alligator. He was side-eyeing Grimmjow's squad like he wondered how they would taste. 

Grimmjow shot a ball of energy at the water in front of Kurosaki, raising a wave taller than he was -- a challenge, a distraction. " _Here_ , you ugly fucker!"

He only thought 'hey, if we ganged up to kill him we might all have survived' once he was already in the woods. 

Eh. Probably not. They really didn't have that level of synchronicity.

The forest was quiet and still and they may have startled some animals but Grimmjow was past noticing. All he wanted was to get far enough from his squad that they wouldn't get dragged in, find a clearing, and then take a stand. Fight that monster head on. 

Lose, probably brutally. But the idea of testing how far he could go against such a beast made his blood sing. 

Fire streaked over his head, catching in the treetops, crowning the forest before him in roaring flames. Grinning fit to strain his cheek muscles, Grimmjow whirled on the spot, bone blade out.

\--

When he finally pinned down the sharp prey (enemy soldier) (not quite that) his armor was cracked in three places and his horn was chipped. He laughed without a thought as he leaned down. The sharp prey's harder face had shattered during their last attack and only half a jaw and a jagged crown were left, baring soft skin streaked with blood, soft flesh lips curled up in challenge, glittering eyes.

He knew this, he realized slowly. They had... Huh. 

He fisted both hands in shreds of tac vest, hauled him up, pushed him firmly against a -- rock, not a tree. It had been a tree. (He'd been the one pinned against the--)

No matter.

The sharp prey kicked with the leg that was still holding his weight; snorting, Ichigo pushed between his knees, wound his tail around that leg to keep it still, out of the way. Leaned in to take his scent, his feel. 

Coppery blood and salty sweat. Nerves and need. 

Contempt and hate and-- 

He paused, shoulders tensing so the spines rose; tried to... No, that wasn't right. That was -- 

It had _been_ right. He'd been smaller-cornered, looked down upon; he'd been...

"Fuck you staring for," the sharp prey grated out, but with a pinch of sudden wariness, tilting the hot wash of his aggression away from display-fighting, closer to the ready stillness of watching a bigger predator walk past. "Take a picture, it'll last longer."

The prey's eyes gleamed ferally; his soft human mouth bared inadequate fangs. 

Growling quietly, he leaned in, tilting his head so the outer edge of his horns brushed against his high cheekbone, and thought about biting down. On that jaw, on that mouth -- on the tender neck under the thinly armored rings, the whole length of that strong shoulder.

Flesh parting under his teeth, blood filling his mouth. 

He'd be such a good addition to Ichigo's -- 

_No_. He... He would stop existing separately. That was... That would be... ( _no, oh no. no_.) Sad? Boring.

(he could still taste him on his tongue, the salt of his sweat and come. his dick hot and thick in Ichigo's mouth, pressing down on his tongue.) (so fragile, so soft-skinned in his _teeth_ \--) (he'd trusted Ichigo? he had trusted him with. with that, with. _him_. he'd.)

(Food, meat and _food_ , cold disdain and looking down on -- the same disdain that the now-dead smug prey had shown, and Ichigo _didn't let anyone live who--_ )

(he'd trusted Ichigo with that. himself. his need.)

" _Hey_ , Naranjo." 

A testing wriggle, the whole length of his body discreetly straining against Ichigo's tail, his hands, his weight. The fire in the prey's core cooling down. _No_ , Ichigo thought with a sudden burst of -- unpleasant -- _fear_ \-- he couldn't leave, Ichigo had him caught, so why should Ichigo feel so--

"--Ah. You got a little craving, huh?" 

His prey was staring into his eyes, knife-narrow but not... Not aggressive, not mean.

"I look tasty right now?"

Ichigo growled, irritated and tense with feelings he couldn't get a grip on.

"It happens," his prey said, really casually from someone who was pinned with horns and teeth inches from hot pulsing arteries. He felt less calm than he sounded, but still... knife's edge, danger-all-around-but-I-can-do-this. Battle-calm.

Like their sharpshooter before another impossible kill. Like (cousin, friend, mine) Ishida when he brought up a hail of arrows and controlled every single one to perfection. Like Candice when--

"It's a thing for Arrancars in resurrección." 

"I'm not an Arrancar!" shot out of Ichigo's mouth before he could even think, immediate and offended.

Pure astonishment sparked bright and sudden in his prey's heart; right on its heels came a burst of pleasure-approval-pride. Ichigo felt an odd rising heat in return in his still-shelled face, his throat. 

"Holy _shit_ , you speak."

" _You_ speak," Ichigo growled back, still off-balance. Pointless and slow as words were, they were a battlefield on which he sure as hell wasn't _yielding_.

His prey seemed nothing but happy about it. It was... Odd. Disorienting. He tightened his tail's grip a little bit, and then loosened it fast when a little hiss of pain made it out of the man's mouth.

"I'm a mouthy bastard in general. _You_ are a primal Arrancar who's at best three weeks old." 

Ichigo stared behind his mask; the man stared back like he could see him through it, eyes intensely fascinated. His nostrils flared a bit to take in Ichigo's scent and something that might become a smile or a snarl or somehow both floated light at the corners of his mouth and eyes.

The prey's razor-studded tail slid up against his, curled halfway around the back of his thigh and then brushed down to the back of his knee. Ichigo narrowed his eyes. It was a threat but almost a thoughtless, automatic one.

"I ain't great at history because who the fuck cares but I'm pretty sure it took a lot of the founders a lot more time than that to come back, and some never did. And none of them ever came back from a _sand dragon_ , Kurosaki, you're a marvel."

He was smiling now, eyes hooded to veil his irises with long, dark blue lashes. A fey smile, hiding so much more than it shared. Ichigo flushed hot, felt -- very odd. Unsure and... wobbly. Shivery, inside? Instead of... No, he didn't feel like that usually, right? He didn't. He felt solid. Certain. Instead of... 

"I'm not an Arrancar," Ichigo repeated, because this he was sure of. Because. 

Arrancars were. Were from... Somewhere. They didn't share territory with... 

This forest wasn't either of their territories, though. Wasn't it? It didn't feel like it was.

His sharp prey was an Arrancar, but Ichigo wasn't, because-- 

Growling his irritation, he plunged face first at the man's shoulder, claws shredding through the fatigues, and bit down with an incensed growl.

Power built up, fast and intense with survival instinct. Ichigo smothered it with his own, taking control of every single solid thing, every shiver of energy inside his radius and forcing it to a standstill, keeping the man's power from expanding outside of his body. Then he caught the man's raised hand, pulled it down, and opened his maw and his mouth, the bone of his outer face stained with prey-blood. 

"Don't you _dare_ ," he forced out through the offense.

His prey punched sharply up under his chin, knocking his head back. Ichigo howled his startled outrage -- got another uppercut for his trouble, a dry tap that rattled and dazed more than it knocked him back, and then -- bristled, hissed -- got hit again.

"What did I dare?" the man asked low and growly, bracing hard on Ichigo's collarbone so he couldn't bite again. "If I'm gonna piss you off I wanna do it deliberately."

A burst of white-hot rage caught in Ichigo's throat; for a second he was tempted to just spit fire and incinerate him where he stood, but then _he would have the last word_. Ichigo stood, growling out his anger until it calmed just enough for him to come up with a sentence. 

That asshole kept watching with his head tilted to the side, telegraphing patiently-waiting like that wasn't the biggest fucking _lie_ his body had ever told.

"I'm not a fucking Arrancar!"

_Finally_ , that patient-teacherly-amused face scrunched up in irritation, the feeling like sharp edges came back out ready to shred and stab. "You're telling me that through a fucking bone plate mask. You even listening to yourself? What the fuck else are you, then?" 

He knocked the back of his knuckles hard on the shell over Ichigo's shoulder; Ichigo rattled out a chest-deep growl. 

"What _are_ you," the sharp prey challenged, getting as close to his face as he could between the horns. One of them grazed his temple anyway and blood beaded along the edge, salty-coppery, tempting. "With your dragon _tail_ and your _spines and talons_ and your _mask_."

Ichigo slipped his claws under the chin of his hard face and yanked forward and up.

The shell cracked sharply across his forehead. He threw it over his shoulder. A few patches of skin along his cheekbones and jawline had still been bonded to the bone; the raw flesh underneath stung for a second and then healed over. He went for the dome of the skull-shell next, still hissing his irritation.

Freed, his hair tumbled across his face; he raked it backwards behind his horns, blew a lock of long hair off his sensitive nose. Did he... he didn't want to take off his horns, not even to prove a fucking point. But it made getting his teeth into that asshole a bit too complicated. He frowned, thinking -- then wrinkled his nose as his hair fell right back down across it.

Then blinked up at his prey, as an odd moment of surprise echoed through him. 

His eyes were a little wide. Blue and green. Pretty. Ichigo had never seen them in sunlight, had he? He made a small approving noise.

Then he -- Ichigo's... prey, enemy, mate, he raised his hand and plucked at the disobedient lock of hair with two knuckles, the claws politely curled back into his own palm -- paused, mind whirling with startled confusion. With want that shaded different.

Ichigo hadn't even done anything yet. 

Ichigo blinked back, trying to figure himself out, to figure out how to answer that feeling, that gesture. What _did_ he want? Fight him, yes. Eat him...? Also yes, but he... Hrrm.

Sex sounded good too. 

The way the man felt now was... Good. But it made Ichigo's own feelings echo it and -- it was too shivery, too _uncertain_. Fragile.

He didn't like that part. The man didn't like it either, retreating like --

Ichigo liked him retreating from it even less. He turned his head a little, nipped at the wrist right next to his face still holding onto his hair. Not bone plating there, not over such a flexible articulation; the thickened skin tasted like sweat and dust and explosions. 

"Salty," he commented, lips curving up and teeth still brushing his pulse. 

"Yeeeah," the man said, a tad too throaty for casual, "I'm drawing the line at commenting on my seasonings." 

Ichigo snorted at him. "I can't fuck you if I eat you." He gave a regretful sigh right against the damp skin of his wrist, mostly to mess with him, watching him through his eyelashes. "Maybe I could. But that'd be boring. And then you'd rot, so that'd be only once."

The man laughed too, a single, startled bark, then seemed to catch himself meaning it, seemed to catch the hot bloom of his own desire and got all embarrassed-annoyed. "How are you not an Arrancar again," he said, deliberately provocative. 

Ichigo knew he was doing it to distract him and still growled quietly; he nipped at his wrist, his own hand curling around his prey's forearm to keep him from dodging his punishment.

"Also long hair looks really shitty on you," the sharp prey lied grumpily.

"Uh _huh_." Ichigo was a little distracted from the sparring-noises by... something sneaky, a feeling like a plan, a _trick_. "We both know you want to fuck it," he said, mouth moving and things rising out without any real attention.

"--I what." Brief moment of unwilling amusement, then determined _no-keep-going_. "Oh yeah, I wanna wrap that gross unwashed mess around my cock and tie it in a bow, how'd you guess--" His prey was talking just as unthinkingly as Ichigo was, busy with... Ichigo couldn't feel it in his mind, so what exactly _was_ he doing?

... He could feel something moving around his thigh, though, where his prey's long, thin tail was still wrapped, like -- oh. Oh, the blades were coming back in. You could _do_ that? Take the bone back in, not just shed it? The man's armor -- Ichigo pulsed with his mind's strength, felt it resonate thinner than it had been in places; not brittle but more supple, more like skin. _Mating-shape_ was his first, intrigued thought, but he could still feel the trick coming, the tense tightrope-walking pride of not having been found out yet.

"--Jizz shampoo, can't possibly make it worse, you've got fucking _masonry_ in there--"

"And yet," Ichigo interrupted, smirking all teeth out, "you still want to fuck it."

"I really want to fuck it," his sharp prey-mate said in a low, different tone, quiet and vibrating in his throat.

Something in Ichigo's guts tightened. Oh.

His prey's hand was still resting curled palm-up with its little-finger side brushing against Ichigo's temple, holding the lock of hair away from Ichigo's face. Warm and padded, claws tucked away as he shifted it a little bit, just an inch, not even that. Shivery-rough-soft against the soft skin right beside Ichigo's eye.

It felt -- oh.

The sharp prey slid it -- cautious like he was handling a (bomb) (newborn sister-child) -- back along Ichigo's temple, eyes never leaving Ichigo's, and tucked the hair back over the root of his horn --

(oh quiet wonder-want nerves confusion _want_ \-- Now!!)

His hand snapped closed on Ichigo's horn and twisted, forcing his neck and his upper body away -- a kick took Ichigo in the hip to shove him whirling even farther, and he made a noise of offended protest even as he landed on hands and knees in the dust. He was leaping right back up in the next second, growling -- _damn_ it, too late, his prey wasn't cornered anymore, he had to chase--

He was still there. In the middle of the clearing -- space to fight, to see Ichigo coming.

Streamlined -- no more extra blades. Legs less springy, more solidly planted. An ugly knot of skin on his thigh, instead of broken armor and raw flesh and blood.

He grinned all teeth out and held out a hand, claws glinting as he curled them in a come-here gesture, mind all full of ready claws and fight/kill/play. 

"Come. If you're a bad lay I'm the one who'll eat you." 

Ichigo burst out laughing, and then blurred into movement.

\--

They impacted hard, rolled in the air and landed still rolling -- broke apart, pounced again. Crashed head on, hands snaking through blocks to try to grip at wrists and elbows. Neither of them even tapped into their telekinesis, or any other abilities.

Kurosaki's body seemed to remember hip throws and leg sweeps, a whirl of reflexes and automatic counters, and it was -- fuck, it was _fun_. Even more fun when he tripped himself up going through a class-formal judo throw and forgot to account for the massive lizard tail, and looked all kinds of offended about it.

Kurosaki was trying hard to pin him down, but Grimmjow was bendier by far and knew his own body in this shape much better, the hinge of his own ankles, the smaller surface of his feet -- the fact that he had five fucking limbs and not four. 

No powers, well-rested, he would have given himself ten to one odds.

He wasn't well-rested, was the thing. And Kurosaki seemed to have an endless well of power to pull from when it was about healing up damage and muscle fatigue. Here Grimmjow knew he was gonna sleep for two days and limp like an old man for a week and the bastard wasn't even going to be _sore_ , he could tell.

But like hell he was gonna just flop there and pant for breath and let the guy use him like a blow-up doll.

Winding his tail around Kurosaki's knee, he pulled up to take him off his feet; accompanied him down with a hammer blow to the diaphragm, and then he was in a low crouch astride his prey and skimming foot claws along his armored chest on their way up to Kurosaki's under-chin (which would open his throat if it hit -- but Grimmjow was committed and damn it but he _did_ take it that seriously.)

Heavy slap of dragon tail to the back of his knee. Grimmjow's kicking foot glanced off to the side; he landed on his ass across hardened abs -- tried to roll off before _holy fuck_.

Kurosaki had just reared up both his upper body and his knees under him -- jostling him forward to--

The impact to his forehead was hard enough to throw him back against Kurosaki's legs, knees borderline punching him in the spine, and then -- he wasn't sure for a minute, brain dazed by the hit.

When things stopped moving he was flat on his back with Kurosaki on top of him, Grimmjow's hand to his chest to keep at bay the... 

"What the fuck," Grimmjow wheezed out dumbly. "Where's your horns."

He still had them, was the thing. They were just short enough now that they came about even with Kurosaki's temples, instead of protruding forward by over a handspan of murderspace.

Kurosaki fucking _cackled_ at him, expression too delighted, too wicked for the sober young man he'd first met -- but so human that Grimmjow couldn't... This wasn't a dragon's face, a dragon's expression. Maybe the width of that smile, the exposed teeth, but. Grimmjow knew what his fracción's faces had looked like after the Aizen-provided boost all those years ago. Hollows didn't crinkle their eyes like that. 

"... You took solid bone and _reshaped_ it." Grimmjow groaned in disgust, yanking on Kurosaki's shortened horn. "You smug little bitch."

Better -- better to think about that. About how fucking annoying it was, how fast he just -- Quincies weren't supposed to master this shit so fast, Quincies were supposed to _die_. Even those rare few of them who did have biokinesis, who could control the spread of the hollow in their cells. Allergic reactions or systemic shut-down, whichever -- even the hollow that had devoured them from the inside-out died, burned out.

Kurosaki huffed. "So did you!"

"It took me six months to learn, asshole." Grimmjow bared his teeth; his arms quivered with fatigue. "Why not just fucking shed them, what the fuck!"

\-- Shit. There went his resistance. He gave it another try; swore. He couldn't hold it, couldn't keep straining, muscles gone to water with exhaustion. 

He was losing. Had lost. He had known he would but it fucking _burned_ not to be taken down in a flurry of powerful hits, but to be worn down to the end of his endurance. That wasn't how -- that wasn't how he'd wanted it. Imagined it. If he was gonna get bent over then he wanted to be fucking forced and here Kurosaki was, still staring unblinking with his creepy gold-on-black eyes as he lazed on top of him. Waiting for him to surrender--

"I like horns," Kurosaki said mulishly, like Grimmjow was gonna say he wasn't allowed. Grimmjow snorted despite himself -- then reared up against his hold to try to bite. 

The crown of bone still sticking to Grimmjow's forehead chose this time to crack down the middle. Bone fragments rained down his face, over his eyes, making him flinch. Fuck. Just out of reach.

Then the interlocked bands over his vulnerable stomach and crotch cracked, too. Kurosaki's eyes brightened; he made a little interested noise, as if he'd managed to feel it through his own armor, and pressed down with his hips.

Fractured edges and shards bit into the tender skin of Grimmjow's underbelly, printing themselves nice and red. He would have fought if it had broken the skin but it stayed at the edge of actual damage. The bass-notes resonance of deep muscular pressure battling it out with high, sharp, stinging skin had his body buzzing. 

The long, slow roll of Kurosaki's crotch right along the root of Grimmjow's straining dick made him pop all the needle-tips of his claws right through Kurosaki's shoulders; but Kurosaki only laughed, low and quiet, and leaned down to nip at the bridge of Grimmjow's nose, to breathe all over his face. 

Nose to nose, gold-on-black eyes glittering down at him. Like they were gonna kiss or something, like Kurosaki wanted to lick his way into his mouth, all slow and--

Grimmjow shoved a hand between them, felt down the interlocked bands of thin, not-really bone shielding Kurosaki's belly, gave the shell down there a frustrated squeeze. "You fucking kidding me," he growled, teeth bared to ward off whatever it was that had been building up between them; "that's like trying to fuck through a sports cup. Off, take it off!"

Kurosaki let out a strange, startled chirp, and then his face was in Grimmjow's neck, then his hands were feeling -- stroking, squeezing, palming -- their way down his arms. They squeezed his biceps and the sensitive inner face of his arms where he couldn't have real armor without compromising his mobility -- then down his flanks, flicking bits of cracking armor off him and then immediately sliding underneath to clench and release with possessive, feverish intensity. Never hard enough to hurt, to punch those thicker claws through bared skin, defenseless flesh. Just kneading strokes, unveiling him.

He felt like a chick getting peeled from his egg, new and raw.

His combat uniform was rags held together by more solid straps. He remembered to save the pocket with his mission trophy before Kurosaki could just shred and dispose of it, tearing it off and dropping it safely over his head; but then Kurosaki's face was there in his fucking _armpit_ , nuzzling along his side and catching the defined edge where his pectoral muscle joined his shoulder with his teeth.

Grimmjow gritted his teeth on a moan, lifted a hand to fist in orange hair to keep it there, then -- shove it off. It was gross -- it felt good, but it was gross, he'd sweated fucking _liters_ , but it felt-- 

That dickhead kept pressing solid shell into his crotch, right over the cracked edges of Grimmjow's own protection. 

"Take it off or I'm leaving!"

"Take _yours_ off!" Kurosaki shot back, propping himself on on hands and knees above him to glare, human skin flushed hot, dragon eyes narrow with offense.

"If I don't have your dick in my hand in five seconds I swear to God--"

Kurosaki paused, lifted his head to stare at him, narrow-eyed. Grimmjow hissed back, teeth bared -- then.

Uh.

Okay, now Kurosaki was nuzzling his face.

Cheek to cheek -- then mouth and nose brushing along, nudging at him. What the hell? That was -- shit, it was _cute_. Sweet. That wasn't how it had ever been between them -- it wasn't supposed to -- what? He blinked, jarred, didn't know if he should bite and haul him back by the hair, if he should just give in and allow the liberty -- and now Kurosaki was crooning quietly at Grimmjow, now he was drawing back just an inch to stare. He was so close Grimmjow could have counted the strange, tiny faceted things he had in his golden irises instead of human striations. 

Kurosaki's eyelashes brushed against the tip of Grimmjow's nose. Then he leaned in, slow and cautious, to brush their lips together in a kiss so goddamned gentle it was a relief when he felt the testing nibble afterwards, like Kurosaki wasn't too sure anymore how it was supposed to go.

"No eating," Grimmjow grumbled against his mouth, nipping back half-heartedly. Kurosaki laughed silently against his mouth, and then licked his way in.

Hot and wet, slow like molasses. Kurosaki's too-long tongue taking its sweet time exploring his fangs, the soft inside of his cheeks, the ridges of his palate. Following an old scar where he'd bitten through his cheek the first time he went into resurrección. And still crooning, tuneless and pleased, a low vibration that ran right through his chest and his mouth and seemed to slip into his brain.

He kissed back -- let Kurosaki coax him into kissing back, unresisting and gone loose under him, under those kneading hands. Kurosaki wasn't... wasn't gonna hurt him. Didn't want to. Didn't _need_ to. Only wanted to fuck him nice and slow, probably make him feel good. 

It'd be so easy to let him.

"Get your fucking dick out," he hissed, breaking away from his mouth with a snake-fast, punitive bite, fingers twisting in messy orange hair. "Your _dick_ , Kurosaki, you planning to fuck me with your horns?" 

"Is that a kink you have?" 

Grimmjow froze with his hand halfway down, staring. 

"I'm not judging. I mean, it's weird, but you do you."

"...What the f-- _hey_. What?"

A sudden wide grin, crinkled eyes and all. A really, really human grin. "You talk about them a lot. Or maybe you just want to hold onto them? You can do that."

For a second he even forgot to boggle at how impossibly normal, how _casual_ Kurosaki sounded, talking shit, and could only visualize it -- ragdoll-limp, clinging for dear life as Kurosaki nailed him to the forest floor. On his back with legs in the air and Kurosaki not even caring that Grimmjow had his hands on two of his biggest weapons, because it wasn't like he could actually use them as handles to force the guy into anything. 

A trail of nibbles going down brought him back out of his head. Lapping at blood along his ribs that he'd forgotten the cause of; caressing the last fractured pieces of his defunct armor off his skin; following it with his lips.

"I like that you're blue here too," Kurosaki said, too candid to accept, and took the head of his dick in his mouth.

It felt -- fuck. _Shit_. Of course it felt good, wet heat and tender flesh constricting all around him, but it -- Kurosaki's _tongue_. 

Kurosaki's smug little brat-smirk, like a snot-nosed kid who'd gotten away with something, the way his eyes sparkled.

It wasn't anything like the first time Kurosaki had blown him, and yet.

He fisted both hands in long orange hair, hissing between his teeth in shocked pleasure as Kurosaki fucking deepthroated him. He hadn't been that practiced last time -- Grimmjow could tell he'd sucked a few dicks before for sure, but nothing so advanced _where was his gag reflex oh hell_ \--

A rough chuckle, Kurosaki pulling off to grin at him with the head of Grimmjow's dick pressing against his lips. Oh fucking shit, Grimmjow had said the gag reflex stuff out loud.

Growling, Grimmjow caught him by the horns and piloted his head back. Kurosaki went, laughing all the way down.

"Shut up, you little fucker."

Kurosaki strained back. "Nmph -- not yet!"

"I preferred when -- when you didn't _talk_. Ugh."

"Lie," Kurosaki pointed out, tail lashing slowly on the ground in a pleased arc. Grimmjow thrust up out of pure frustration.

He really didn't have a gag reflex anymore, did he. And the tongue, wrapped around Grimmjow's shaft like a fucking constrictor snake to draw him deeper in, the hint of teeth against the root of him -- hot breaths against his skin, his fucking pubes, dragon Kurosaki and his golden eyes shadowed by burnished orange eyelashes, dragon Kurosaki and his playful conquest --

Human Kurosaki, awkward but defiant, wary but willing, on his knees for him.

"Fuck -- _stop_." 

Kurosaki reared back, almost tearing his horns out of Grimmjow's hands, and the stark edges smarted against his palms; he pulled Grimmjow along until he was half-sitting and sore and baffled.

Baffled until he saw Kurosaki's face, at least. 

"Not--"

Fuck. 

"That's--"

_Fuck_.

"You fucking dumbshit," he growled, and hauled himself closer, biceps straining, arms shaking with exhaustion, hauled himself face to face and his legs around Kurosaki's hips. "I didn't go through this bullshit chase so I could blow my load in five fucking minutes, okay? One of us is getting plowed here or I'm murdering you and keeping your dick as a trophy."

'One of us.' Hah. 

Kurosaki stared at him for an instant that felt too long, too heavy, and then smiled a smile Grimmjow couldn't look at, couldn't fucking _take in_ ; it was too... They weren't like that. They were a battlefield hookup, enemies scratching an itch; they weren't that.

It was just as candid and defenseless as the comment about the color of his pubes, a dragon's lack of sense that there was anything at all to be embarrassed about, to be _wary_ about, that if he shared too much he could get himself hurt. It was nothing like the watchful young man he'd met, weighing the danger before soldiering in anyway with his eyes wide open.

Grimmjow dived in and kissed him, because he was tired of seeing his fucking face.

He growled on principle when Kurosaki toppled him backwards, trailed slightly too-hard bites along Kurosaki's lips with his hands linked together at the back of his head, tangled in that cascading orange mess. The ground was muddy and littered with broken bone armor, clammy and biting into his skin. 

Kurosaki was fever-hot against his front, between his thighs, pushing the mound of his still-armored crotch against Grimmjow's taint. It was smooth and with very little give against his balls, pushing them up, but living-hot -- up until it softened, texture shifting from porcelain to velvet, Kurosaki once again showing off his technique-thieving ability. 

He braced for the first dry, unprepared push, breathing harshly cheek to cheek with Kurosaki. 

He still didn't feel a dick -- not until something nudged at him, something finger-thin pushing down his crack as Kurosaki rolled his hips and he -- what? That was it? Couldn't be, Grimmjow had felt him up through his pants that first time, it hadn't been that _oh **fuck**_.

A tapering point, blood-hot and pulsing and wet. A coil like muscle, quickly thickening, opening him up. Two inches, three, pushing in further, faster than he'd expected or thought possible without considerable pain, an ache without the bright sting of tearing skin. He inhaled sharply through his nose, still trying to make sense of it -- and then a ridge around the shaft caught at his rim. Kurosaki rocked back and forth a little bit, working him open just enough for the shaft to suddenly glide further in. And then _another_ ridge --

Mother -- fucking -- _bitch_ what the fuck, jesus shitting dick, what the entire and complete -- oh god it was hot inside him, pulsing with Kurosaki's heartbeat, hot and moving like nothing human.

Panting shallowly as inch after inch of _fucking sand dragon dick_ filled him, Grimmjow realized he'd planted all his claws in the meat of Kurosaki's shoulders once again, that his legs were locked around Kurosaki's hips, clinging with all his strength; and the air was heavy with power, every square inch of Grimmjow's body gently squeezed and stroked and _held in place_ by telekinesis much stronger than his own.

He didn't even know if Kurosaki knew he was doing it. He didn't know if Kurosaki even realized he'd changed his motherloving genitals, something no Arrancar would ever do on accident. Arrancars changed themselves for battle or for kink -- with _effort_ and _forethought_ \-- but what kind of person would just -- of _course_ Grimmjow had changed his before, to see, but not so casually, so thoughtlessly, so--

Deep. Deep and only getting thicker, every ridge a shock down his spine, another flash of awareness that he was gonna have to feel them coming out too, every coiling inch pushing insistently against his inner walls, rearranging his _guts_ to make itself a space.

He'd changed his throat, too, hadn't he, to swallow Grimmjow down the way he had? His jaw. His _tongue_. Why not his crotch, especially when living with _Aizen_. Of course you wouldn't want your danglies to dangle. Why paper potentially breakable armor over your frailest parts if you could just...

Just. Ah.

Fuck.

Making all sorts of breathy noises against his neck, Kurosaki paused, the telekinetic hold rippling against Grimmjow's skin, then _stiffened_ inside him and gave a short, deep thrust. Grimmjow bit down without a single thought, jaws clamping down on the shoulder against his face, breaking skin.

Blood filled his mouth and he tensed up, expecting a backhand, a snarl; he only got another thrust, a pleased trill. Kurosaki pulled him up by the hips and his heavy dragon tail slipped under the small of Grimmjow's back, coiled under his spine to angle him up.

Then Kurosaki planted his feet, claws digging into the ground, and started hammering home.

Ridges raking his insides, back and forth, pulling and pushing at his rim, coils shoving up like they were trying to pop his navel out.

He wasn't gonna yell out, was Grimmjow's only coherent thought for the next... minutes, hours, centuries. He wasn't gonna scream or moan or any of that shit, he wasn't -- he wasn't _breathing_ , or only through his nose whenever he remembered, teeth clamped down so tight on Kurosaki's shoulder he thought he might bite all the way through if one -- more -- thrust --

He came back to himself in full, head lolling back limply, throat raw. Kurosaki was still wrapped around him, balls-deep in him if he even still had those, but unmoving, quivering with unreleased tension. 

The look on his face was a strange mix of nerves and pride. Grimmjow watched him for a second, body buzzing, mind empty.

... That fucking bastard had actually fucked his brains out.

He flexed his claws, slow and thoughtful; squeezed his knees. Kurosaki gave a reflexive thrust, and then a second one when Grimmjow only hissed quietly and didn't _fucking pass out again_. Grimmjow encouraged him, petting languidly at the nape of his neck, at his shoulders; mouthing at the wound he'd left on his shoulder, still in the middle of healing closed. He ran his hands up and down Kurosaki's back, feeling the corded muscles moving under thin skin.

Down... and down...

Feeling Kurosaki's ass flex and clench under his hands was oddly fascinating, powerful but controlled. Every time he drove back in every single ridge seemed to rake over Grimmjow's prostate, giving him another aftershock. 

"If your sex endurance is as ridiculous as your battle one I'm gonna kill you now," he mused against his ear, and nipped, dodging under his horn. Kurosaki made another little rumbling noise, much too contented. 

Grimmjow spat in his hand and went straight back down, gripping Kurosaki's ass cheeks and hauling him as far up as he could to slip a hand under the thick root of his dragon tail.

"--Wha--?"

Grimmjow took his mouth, tongue invading him as insistently as his fingers did, spreading Kurosaki open. 

His own tail was thinner than a dick, but not by too much; it didn't taper, and the armor had no give. Kurosaki jumped when it breached him, growled in protest and bit along his jaw -- his dick lashed inside Grimmjow, shoving at his guts from the inside in the most breath-stealing way. 

"Asshole," he hissed against Grimmjow's cheekbone, and then made a strangled little noise when -- yeah. 

Yeah, it was more like fucking Kurosaki with a dildo -- not enough feedback, he'd never tried to grow a tail with _skin_ on it (maybe he should, some day, could be fun) -- but he'd fingered some prostates in his day and knew how to milk a bitch dry. Baring his teeth in a shark grin, shaking with fatigue and smug triumph, he made damn fucking sure he wasn't gonna be the only one coming his brains out.

When Kurosaki whined quietly against his throat he couldn't help chuckling and ruffling the hair at the back of his bowed neck in rough consolation. 

\--

Somewhere in the middle he came a second time. Probably. Passed out right afterwards, though.

It figured.

\--

Dark was falling over the woods. Ichigo closed his eyes halfway, felt out for hunted-prey fear or panting flanks. Nothing around here; he'd scared it all off. Huffing out a breath to chase hair out of his face, he thought about going a little farther. 

His... sharp prey, mate, person... he'd been asleep for so long. It was annoying, and a bit worrisome. The man had lost the war form entirely pretty much the second they were done having sex -- lost the claws and tail and the springing legs; lost everything hard and dangerous; and his skin was so thin and goosebumpy under the breeze. Ichigo had ended up tucking him in a hollow under some bushes and burying him under every dry tuft of not-grass he could pull up.

At least Ichigo could still feel him, soft and wispy in sleep, and he wasn't completely unresponsive; but even pushing fresh meat right into his mouth only provoked half-hearted chewing and an immediate return to deeper sleep.

Maybe the prey Ichigo brought back wasn't good enough. Maybe he needed something special, stronger... Huh. Something that could use its mind to push at things or explode them, like the smug prey? But the smug prey was buried under tons of rubble by now and Ichigo didn't feel like going that far from his unconscious person and then _digging_.

Something slithery and many-limbed burst out of a tree; Ichigo gave chase, lost it in minutes. _Ugh_. It'd be so much easier if he had a partner to corner them with, he thought, and paused, blinking, at how natural and yet brand new this idea felt. 

He didn't... he didn't hunt with a pack, did he? Except he had, in the past; except he hadn't chosen them and they'd been really bad at letting him participate in the good parts of a hunt. Selfish jerks. Selfish, haughty, sneering jerks.

Ishida had been okay at the partner thing, haughty or not. Ichigo really should go and look for him. 

He'd... been hurt, hadn't he. 

Ishida had been hurt and then the smug prey had taken Ichigo. The _smug fucking asshole of a war criminal_. Who'd hurt Ichigo's... not a littermate, but almost, who'd threatened Ichigo's actual siblings, who'd... He hissed between his teeth. Yeah, he really wasn't digging his corpse up to eat now. That asshole could rot for the mushrooms and the flies, have every bit of flesh and power _wasted_.

Behind the next bushes was the river, curving around a rising cliff. Ichigo paused to watch the water, brow knit in thought.

He didn't belong here. The woods were wrong and his sisters weren't here, his mom and dad weren't here, Ishida wasn't here. The smug asshole had taken him from his squad (Ichigo had stayed behind.) 

(Ichigo had known they weren't gonna come back for him.)

( _gemischt_.)

The woods... weren't a bad place; nothing existed here that could hurt him save for his sharp prey, and... they'd fought before, several times, but if he could be convinced to have sex then he could be convinced to cooperate. They could... Ichigo could probably bring him along. 

If he didn't wake up then Ichigo would just carry him. He wasn't that heavy.

Alright! New plan. Get back to the bush he'd stashed the guy under, pick him up, track down Ishida, go back home. He could hunt on the go. 

Humming under his breath in renewed optimism, Ichigo turned on his heels and made a beeline for the nest, tail swaying behind him as he hopped over obstacles and made footholds in the air. His sharp prey's defenseless skin would feel nice, pressed against his back, his living warmth. Ichigo had been too often cold in that smooth-walled prison box, too often bothered by torn metal and broken plastic and things the smug prey found haughty sadism in not removing from his cage. _Train the beast to be grateful for what was given to it_ infuckingdeed. 

His sharp prey would talk to him, not at or past him. He was _prickly_ , but he always came back for more. They'd spar with words, snipe, trade nips and swipes. Have sex again? Oh man, Ichigo hoped. He hadn't had a regular lover in so long. 

Maybe by the time Ichigo got back home he could trust him around his family, too. Everybody in the same den. And Inoue, too? And Tatsuki and Chad. He could go and get them back from their hiding place; they'd be safe if he was here, and double-safe if his sharp prey helped guard them. That'd be good. That'd be great.

Grinning with thoughts of family and pack, he jogged through the last line of trees.

The grass-lined hollow was empty.

\--

He tracked the scent and the feel of his sharp prey-mate back to the river but his prey-mate wasn't there drinking. He tracked the scent of the group of not-humans ( _Arrancars_ ) along the riverbank and back up the cliff, and through more and more woods. He tracked through the night and at no point did they slow down, at no point did he catch a live scent. Morning came and he hadn't caught up. (He started catching his sharp prey's scent directly, though, moving under his own power.)

Morning came and then noon and then the wide burned clearing, the launch site -- chemicals and plasma fire, and a wide glassified circle in the center of it, plinking quietly as it cooled. 

Ichigo remembered _alien planet_ , remembered _shuttle drop_ , remembered that his squad had left him behind to die, and now, so had the Arrancars. (So had his Arrancar.)

The only sentient life on the planet. 

Then he howled until he forgot it again.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Debt of Honor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18649651) by [OtherCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtherCat/pseuds/OtherCat)




End file.
